EX    LIBRIS 

THE    UNIVERSITY 

OF    CALIFORNIA 

FROM  THE  FUND 
ESTABLISHED  AT  YALE 

IN  1927  BY 
WILLIAM  H.  CROCKER 

OF  THE  CLASS  OF  1882 

SHEFFIELD  SCIENTIFIC  SCHOOL 

YALE  UNIVERSITY 


MADDALENA'S  DAY 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR: 


A  GRAY  DREAM  AND  OTHER  STORIES 
OF   NEW  ENGLAND   LIFE 


MADDALENA'S    DAY 

AND   OTHER  SKETCHES 


BY 
LAURA  WOLCOTT 


NEW  HAVEN: 
YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

LONDON    •    HUMPHREY  MILFORD    •    OXFORD  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

MDCCCCXX 


COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY 
YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 


Six  of  the  sketches  in  this  volume  appeared  formerly  in 
the  columns  of  the  New  York  Evening  Post  and  the 
Springfield  Republican. 


TABLE    OF    CONTENTS 

OUT  OF  THE  PRESENT 

Maddalena's  Day          .         .         .         .         .         .  H 

Our  Knight  of  the  Lagoons          ....  27 

A  Corner  of  Venice 35 

The  Old  Custode  at  Lucca 40 

The  Spell  of  Pisa 47 

A  Footpath  in  Provence      .....  54 

November  by  the  North  Sea         ....  66 

Across  the  Centuries  ......  72 

On  Donkey-Back  to  Cape  Spartel        ...  82 

OUT  OF  THE  PAST 

The  Abbey's  Legend 97 

The  Priest's  Dilemma 104 

The  Iniquity  of  Midas 108 

A  Brief  for  Mistress  Socrates      ....  112 

Cophetua  and  the  Beggar-Maid  ....  120 


646508 


INTRODUCTION 

iHE  sketches  that  make  up  this  volume  are 
all  from  foreign  lands.  Some  of  them  are 
legends,  after  the  manner  of  "Tanglewood 
Tales"  told  in  light-hearted  vein; — tales  of 
"the  olden,  golden  days  of  our  dreams";  of 
Cophetua,  for  example,  and  the  nameless  beg 
gar-maid  "who  have  loitered  hand  in  hand  far 
ther  down  the  ages,  giving  and  taking  joy  as 
they  went,  than  any  other  crowned  pair  in 
Christendom." 

Another  part  of  the  contents  is  a  group  of 
present-day  character-sketches  full  of  charm 
and  of  sympathy,  whether  it  is  for  little  Mad- 
dalena  "whirled  and  blown  like  a  brown  leaf" 
and  rolling  her  ring  of  bread  along  the  cobbles 
of  the  muddy  Sicilian  street;  or  for  the  old 
custode  at  Lucca  reverently  lighting  his  can 
dles  ;  or  for  the  little  rabble  of  children  in 
Venice  who  set  out  with  a  chanting  funeral 
procession  but  turn  back  with  the  tambourine 
of  the  organ-grinder  and  his  monkey. 

Some  of  the  sketches  are  merely  bits  of  de- 


8  INTRODUCTION 

scription — of  Alkmaar,  Hyeres,  Tangier;  but 
it  is  description  that  humanizes  even  the  wan 
dering  footpath  in  Provence.  The  charm  of 
Pisa  is  not  in  its  Duomo,  its  palaces,  its  Campo 
Santo :  "these  are  but  things."  The  "spell"  is 
in  the  dance  of  the  barefoot  children  on  the 
crowded  street  who  symbolize  the  joy  which  is 
more  than  meat  and  raiment.  "Let  us  eat  and 
drink  and  sleep — for  to-morrow  we  live  again." 
The  author,  who  lived  a  long  lifetime  in 
New  England,  journeyed  in  other  lands  as  she 
dwelt  in  her  own,  finding  all  pathways  lead  out 
toward  some  rainbow's  end.  The  sketches  show 
a  quick,  glad  sympathy  with  mankind  in  its 
many  moods  and  settings — the  sympathy  that 
always  brings  response,  and  makes,  as  it  goes 
on  its  way  through  the  world,  a  little  Eden  of 
each  spot  it  reaches. 

E.  E.  M. 


OUT  OF  THE  PRESENT 


MADDALENA'S  DAY      ,          ;  ;  •  • 

T  HE  spring  after  little  Maddalena  was  able  to 
balance  on  both  feet  she  began  to  fend  for  her 
self.  Lame  Caterina,  next  door,  was  supposed 
to  look  after  the  little  one  when  the  mother  was 
away.  But  as  the  spring  grew  beautiful  more 
and  more  fine  ladies  came  to  go  up  and  down 
the  long  street  and  look  in  at  the  little  shop 
windows,  and  it  was  far  better  to  go  up  and 
down  after  them  begging  soldi  for  the  love  of 
God  than  to  be  hobbling  after  a  lively  babe  all 
day  with  only  a  handful  of  salad  at  evening  for 
reward. 

So  old  Caterina  rose  when  the  sun  streamed 
through  the  door  crack  and  woke  her,  and  had 
her  washing  strung  against  the  dingy  wall  be 
times — for  every  day  of  the  seven  is  washing 
day  in  Sicily — and  little  Maddalena  went  her 
way  in  peace. 

Sometimes  the  road  was  too  thick  with 
donkeys,  and  then  if  no  open  door  were  near 
the  little  one  came  to  old  Caterina  and  hid  be 
hind  her  broad  back,  holding  tight  by  her  rough 


12  MADDALENA'S  DAY 

skirts.  And  when  Bembo  and  Andrea  quarreled 
and  struck  at  each  other  with  harsh  shouts, 
picking  up  stones  which  flew  recklessly  any 
where,  she  ran  to  the  same  refuge  and  hid  her 
face  in  the  folds  of  Caterina's  clay-colored 
gown.  But  this  was  seldom,  for  doors  were 
frequent,  all  standing  open,  and  no  one  ever 
turned  little  Maddalena  away. 

If  Filippo  had  been  digging  up  the  ground 
inside  his  hut  she  sat  down  and  hollowed  a  soft 
place  for  an  olive  branch  or  a  twig  of  finely 
colored  blossoms,  making  a  little  hill  about  it 
with  her  baby  hands  so  that  Filippo  smiled  as 
he  stumbled  over  it  in  the  dark  and  knew  well 
whose  work  it  was. 

The  mother,  Agata,  had  many  odd  jobs  about 
the  town  which  kept  them  in  bread  and  salt; 
the  salad  she  could  always  gather  on  her  way 
home.  Two  years  before  the  father  had  been 
carried  out  at  the  low  doorway,  with  masses  of 
flowers  covering  his  bier  and  the  sun  shining 
for  the  last  time  on  his  uncovered  face,  the 
mother  following  with  a  tight  little  package  in 
her  arms  that  cooed  and  clutched  at  the  flowers 
and  patted  Agata's  thin  cheek,  wondering  at  the 
tears  that  wet  her  own  little  face  and  hands. 


MADDALENA'S  DAY  13 

Now  Vincenzo  was  growing  a  great  lad,  able 
to  look  out  for  himself  and  his  donkey  as  well, — 
the  gray  donkey  that  was  every  night  tethered 
to  the  foot  of  the  bed.  The  floor  was  of  damp 
earth  worn  in  hollows;  but  the  bed  was  a  fine 
one,  and  had  a  white  cover  with  knitted  lace  a 
finger  deep  all  around  it.  For  the  rest  there 
was  a  table,  which  the  hens  usually  claimed,  an 
earthen  bowl  under  it  for  the  salad,  a  brown 
water  jug,  a  broken  chair,  and  a  wooden  cruci 
fix  on  the  wall.  Long  ropes  of  drying  orange 
peel  hung  outside,  against  the  door  jamb, 
strung  on  an  odd  bit  of  picked-up  twine  and 
collected  from — one  never  cares  to  know  where. 
It  was  a  brilliant  day  in  Taormina,  one  of 
those  mornings  when  one  asks  for  nothing  be 
yond  mere  rapture  of  living.  Agata  had  gone 
to  scrub  floors  for  an  artist  outside  the  old 
gate,  and  Vincenzo  and  his  donkey  were  at  work 
also.  So  little  Maddalena  had  the  whole,  long, 
glorious  day  to  herself. 

She  sat  in  one  of  the  smaller  hollows  under 
the  table  and  fed  the  hens  what  few  crumbs 
were  left  of  her  brown  bread-crust,  smoothing 
their  feathers  the  wrong  way  and  opening  their 
bills  as  Agata  often  opened  her  own  small 


14 

mouth  to  see  if  all  the  teeth  were  grown,  then 
suddenly  chased  them  out  with  great  uproar, 
and  looked  about  her  for  new  amusement. 

Pietro  and  Nina  were  trotting  down  the 
street  with  basket  and  water  jug  and  she  ran 
toward  them,  throwing  out  her  hands  to  beg 
for  a  game  of  tag.  First  they  shook  their 
heads,  for  stupid  Pietro  said  Maddalena  did 
not  play  fair.  But  Nina  said,  How  could  she, 
and  so  little? 

So  each  took  a  station,  and  when  Nina  set 
down  her  basket  and  Pietro  lifted  the  water 
jug  from  his  head  and  gave  the  word,  Madda 
lena  ran  under  a  donkey  that  was  passing  with 
a  great  load  of  brushwood  that  filled  the  place, 
and  came  out  on  the  other  side  in  time  for  her 
goal.  Of  course  the  others  couldn't  touch  her 
— they  were  too  big  to  creep  under  donkeys ! 

Then  they  tried  once  more;  but  the  little 
brown  feet  winked  so  fast  through  the  dust  and 
dodged  donkeys  and  carts  and  ran  under  elbows 
and  before  great  baskets  of  artichokes  that 
Pietro  was  sulky  and  wouldn't  play.  So  Mad 
dalena  beat,  and  was  glad,  and  when  the  two 
went  away  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  street  un 
certain  which  way  to  go. 


MADDALENA'S  DAY  15 

But  a  donkey  driver  whooped,  and  cut  at  her 
with  his  long  whip,  so  she  ran  to  the  doorway 
and  drew  her  little  brown  toes  under  shelter  of 
the  dust-colored  frock,  though  she  well  knew 
that  the  whip  wouldn't  really  hurt. 

Then  the  wind  began  to  blow  softly,  and  the 
little  one  spread  out  her  apron  and  scudded 
before  it  like  a  butterfly  on  a  dry  leaf;  and  as 
it  blew  her  that  way  she  turned  the  corner 
toward  the  Greek  theater  that  was  so  golden 
brown  in  the  warm  sunshine  where  the  people 
sat  and  read,  or  strolled,  looking  off  on  Etna 
and  the  blue  sea,  or  held  sketchbooks  and 
painted  pictures. 

And  just  beyond  the  turn  in  the  road  in  the 
shadows  of  a  big  wall  some  boys  were  playing 
hopscotch,  and  she  looked  long  and  wistfully  at 
them,  walking  backward,  both  hands  behind 
her  and  harking  with  all  her  might  for  an  invi 
tation.  As  no  one  thought  of  it  she  suddenly 
ran  in  and  made  two  or  three  jolly  little  hops 
by  herself. 

Just  here  Vincenzo  came  by  with  his  loaded 
donkey  and  snatched  her  up  to  sit  in  the  midst 
of  the  pretty  greens.  So  she  rode  all  the  way 
along  the  lovely  sea  path  to  the  great  hotel 


16 

where  the  donkey's  load  was  going  to  help  make 
a  dinner  for  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  in  fine 
clothes  who  did  not  live  on  bread  and  salted 
salad,  but  had  many  things  beside  and  sat  at 
table  to  eat,  Vincenzo  said  so,  and  he  knew. 

The  donkey  paced  soberly  beside  his  master 
and  none  of  the  three  looked  up  at  the  gray, 
craggy  mountains  or  green  depths  they  had 
always  seen  without  seeing.  Gray  Mola 
perched  a  thousand  feet  above  their  heads  like 
a  nest  of  brown- winged  bats — Mola,  kept  sweet 
in  its  pinching  poverty  and  awful  uncleanliness 
by  pure  winds  blowing  over  it. 

But  little  Maddalena  saw  only  the  pinky 
almond  blossoms  over  the  wall  which  made  the 
roadway  bitter-sweet.  So  Vincenzo  broke  off  a 
great  branch  for  her,  and  two  ladies  looked  up 
in  passing  and  smiled  their  admiration,  though 
they  did  not  see  the  little  brown  hand  held  out 
for  a  soldo.  Few  people  did — perhaps  because 
it  was  so  little.  Maddalena  did  not  care,  only 
it  was  the  custom;  and  she  was  trying  to  learn 
the  whine  from  the  old  beggars  by  the  theater, 
it  was  so  queer.  Vincenzo  thought  it  was  the 
whine  that  brought  the  soldi;  but  Maddalena 
didn't  think  at  all.  She  was  too  little. 


MADDALENA'S  DAY  17 

All  the  way  to  the  great  hotel  the  almonds 
blossomed  like  a  pinky-purple  sea,  and  far  down 
beyond  the  green  fields  the  real  sea  rolled  softly 
inshore  into  lapis-lazuli  greens  and  gleaming 
yellows  outside  the  curling  white  foam  it  took 
back  again  from  the  sands. 

Just  ahead  ran  Pietro  and  Nina,  calling  after 
the  ladies  who  had  smiled  at  Maddalena  with 
her  almond  bough.  Pietro  held  a  shred  of 
ragged  brown-black  tassel  that  he  had  picked 
up  by  the  roadside  which  he  was  offering  with 
frantic  prayers  for  a  soldo.  But  the  ladies  had 
no  need  of  the  tassel  which  was  a  poor  little  tag 
from  some  faded  wrap,  and  rich  as  they  must 
have  been  they  put  nothing  into  the  four  grimy 
hands  which  waved  before  them  insistently  for 
a  long,  long  way.  So  the  two  turned  back  un- 
discouraged,  to  catch  the  next  group  that  came 
to  overlook  the  sea  and  thank  God  for  the  day. 
Just  by  the  Fishermen's  Path  leading  down 
awful,  crooked  steeps  to  the  road  like  a  thread, 
where  boats  went  rolling  out  of  the  rainbow- 
colored  grottoes,  Vincenzo  lifted  little  Madda 
lena  down  and  went  on  with  his  donkey.  For 
awhile  she  rolled  pebbles  down  the  rocky  path, 
and  laughed  and  clapped  her  hands  as  they 


18 

went  hopping  from  point  to  point.  Then  she 
beckoned  to  a  broad  goat  below;  but  Jacopo 
had  laid  down  his  crook  and  Pan  pipe  and  was 
cutting  up  huge  cactus  leaves  for  his  flock,  so 
they  had  serious  business  on  hand,  and  not  even 
a  kid  responded  to  Maddalena's  cheerful  invi 
tation. 

Just  beyond  the  great  hotel  clung  to  its  crag, 
solidly  walled  up  underneath,  and  far  below  gay 
parties  were  roaming  out  to  the  grottoes,  riding 
high  on  crests  of  waves  that  foamed  white  about 
the  bows. 

There  were  no  playmates  here  for  the  little 
one  since  the  goats  declined  to  come,  so  she 
stopped  to  press  her  small  face  to  the  great 
gate  of  Santa  Caterina,  now  a  lovely  dwelling 
where  a  fountain  is  always  playing  in  the  wide 
court  of  roses,  and  the  gardens  are  like  one's 
dreams  of  Paradise.  The  gardener  smiled  at 
Maddalena — as  indeed  who  did  not? — and 
pushed  some  roses  through  the  grating  which 
the  little  hand  closed  on  quickly. 

Etna  was  a  brave  show  this  morning,  with 
its  head  lifted  high  above  the  clouds  that  bil 
lowed  below  like  those  of  Raphael  about  his 
cherubs.  Somewhere  out  of  sight  a  lark  was 


19 

singing  and  little  Maddalena  sang  too,  swinging 
her  arms  high  above  her  head  and  skipping 
along  as  children  did  who  had  jumping  ropes. 
The  sun  was  getting  high  when  she  came  up  the 
steep  cobbles  to  the  town  gate,  running  after  a 
nanny-goat,  stopping  to  pat  a  little  black  and 
white  kid  or  holding  fast  by  a  kind  donkey's 
tail. 

In  the  marketplace  many  little  kids  were 
hanging  head  downward,  stripped  ready  to  be 
cooked,  and  Maddalena  looked  the  other  way, 
their  eyes  were  so  big  and  staring.  Paulo  had 
just  bought  one  for  his  master  and  was  setting 
it  up  on  his  arm  like  a  big,  uncanny  doll.  He 
thought  Maddalena  would  laugh  when  he  talked 
and  sang  to  it,  but  she  did  not,  and  when  he 
called  "Maddalena !  Maddalena !"  she  ran  away. 

And  because  her  feet  had  turned  that  way 
early  in  the  morning,  they  turned  the  same  way 
now,  the  uphill  road  to  the  Greek  theater. 

Old  Tito  was  hammering  away  at  a  shoe, 
putting  a  thick  patch  on  its  worn  sole,  and 
three  ladies  were  straying  along  looking  at 
beads  and  trinkets  and  embroidery  dangling 
outside  every  window.  So  Maddalena  whose 


20 

feet  were  tired  at  last  sat  down  in  the  road  and 
looked  on. 

Farther  on,  almost  at  the  gate  of  the  hotel 
at  the  foot  of  the  theater,  two  or  three  children 
were  dancing  to  a  hurdy-gurdy,  and  the  little 
one  jumped  up  and  joined  them  forgetting  that 
she  had  ever  been  tired.  Such  brown,  beautiful 
feet  that  twinkled  in  the  dusty  road,  the  taper 
ankles  colored  gently,  like  new  chestnuts,  more 
kissable — if  washed — than  those  of  the  great 
Venus  herself.  The  dust-colored  frock  with  the 
Madonna-blue  apron  reached  almost  to  them, 
and  a  bit  of  red  petticoat  made  a  line  of  bright 
ness  that  went  and  came  as  she  danced. 

The  same  lame  beggars  were  sunning  them 
selves  on  the  curbstone,  five  in  a  row,  like  dingy 
old  sparrows  in  every  stage  of  ragged  moult 
and  missing  feather,  and  Maddalena  sat  down 
with  them  and  played  with  their  crutches  and 
rode  horseback  on  Andrea's  staff  with  the 
carved  head,  and  tried  old  Cecco's  whine;  and 
one  gray  woman  whose  wits  were  all  gone  save 
one,  patted  the  pretty  head  under  the  faded 
pink  kerchief  and  said  she  had  a  baby  once  if 
she  hadn't  forgot,  and  rubbed  the  sand  and 
pebbles  from  the  little  feet  with  her  knobby  old 


21 

hands.  So  Maddalena  reached  up  and  stuck 
her  drooping  roses  into  the  white  hair  that 
straggled  from  its  yellow  covering,  and  not  one 
of  them  all  smiled  at  the  silly  picture  it  made. 

The  shutters  of  the  photograph  cabinet  were 
up,  for  it  was  now  high  noon,  and  the  boy 
Tomaso  in  charge  lay  fast  asleep  face  down  on 
a  pile  of  stones.  Maddalena  stood  on  tiptoe  to 
look  at  him,  touched  him  gently  with  one  finger, 
picked  up  his  cap  that  had  fallen  to  the  ground, 
laid  it  on  his  curly  head  and  trotted  on.  Many 
people  were  coming  down  from  the  theater,  and 
as  little  Maddalena  peeped  in  through  the  gate 
she  bethought  her  of  the  new  whine  and  held 
out  both  hands.  And  lo,  a  soldo!  It  was  high 
time,  for  the  breakfast  crust  was  a  little  one. 
So  laughing  and  chattering  to  herself  she 
pattered  back  along  the  road  looking  out  for  a 
loaf  that  would  fit  her  penny. 

Great  rings  and  rounds  and  bars  of  bread 
lay  everywhere  out  of  doors,  and  ragged  men 
were  lounging  over  them,  trying  them  to  see  if 
they  were  soft  anywhere,  and  Luca  was  fast 
asleep  in  his  chair,  his  head  resting  on  both 
arms  that  protected  the  loaves,  his  yellow  cat 
curled  up  in  one  elbow.  At  last,  under  strings 


22 

of  peppers  and  ropes  of  sausages  and  poor 
stripped  kids  staring  at  nothing  with  round, 
awful  eyes,  she  spied  a  very  little  ring  and  hold 
ing  tight  to  her  penny  begged  for  it.  She  was 
starving  and  had  no  breakfast,  and  half  believ 
ing  her  because  she  was  a  baby,  old  Simone  in 
side  the  shop  put  the  bread  reluctantly  into 
her  hands.  And  then  to  his  joy  the  soldo  lay 
revealed  in  the  little  open  palm  and  the  old 
man  crossed  himself  as  he  took  it  and  laid  it 
away  for  the  Virgin. 

On  went  the  little  one  to  the  four  corners 
where  a  fifth  road  crept  up  from  below,  and  she 
had  to  put  her  curls  out  of  her  eyes  and  look 
sharp  for  donkeys.  She  would  take  her  bread 
home  and  sit  down  as  they  did  at  the  great 
hotel  and  eat  it  at  the  table.  But  first  she 
would  try  how  well  it  could  roll;  and  it  was  just 
perfect.  It  hopped  over  the  cobbles  and 
skipped  a  little  clayey  run  and  bumped  into  a 
cart  wheel  till  the  child  laughed  aloud  in  her 
joy,  and  at  last  lay  flat  in  the  road  just  in 
time  for  a  donkey  to  fit  his  small  hoof  into  it. 
Then  indeed  Maddalena  cried  out  for  fear ;  but 
Niccolo  stopped  his  donkey  and  pulled  off  the 
ring.  Once  more  it  was  safe,  hanging  like  a 


23 

brown  bracelet  from  her  arm  past  the  shop 
where  yellow  and  blue  and  pink  kerchiefs  strung 
above  the  door  made  a  bright  resting  place. 
But  dinner  must  wait  for  home.  And  when  she 
got  there  Vincenzo  had  been  before  her  and 
hitched  the  donkey  to  the  bedpost  and  gone 
again. 

Maddalena  was  glad  of  company,  and  so  was 
the  donkey,  for  he  loved  the  child  well.  She 
played  no  tricks  on  him,  she  never  punched  him 
with  sharp  sticks  or  struck  him  with  a  stinging 
whip.  So  he  bent  his  head  down  and  let  her 
rub  his  nose.  But  when  she  offered  him  the 
first  bite  of  her  loaf  he  only  smelt  of  it  and 
meditated.  So  she  sat  down  close  beside  him 
and  ate  all  but  a  small  portion  which  she  re 
served  for  the  hens  and  her  mother. 

She  leaned  out  and  looked  up  and  down  the 
road,  but  nobody  was  coming  with  a  water  jar, 
so  she  ran  to  the  Madonna  fountain  where  many 
women  were  spinning  with  distaffs  as  they 
walked  to  and  fro;  and  climbed  up  to  drink 
from  the  stream  that  was  always  ready  and 
that  dripped  over  her  little  bare  toes.  For  a 
moment  she  stopped  to  look  in  on  the  circle  of 
nut  crackers  whose  hammers  made  such  tinkling 


24 

music,  and  crowding  between  them  sat  on  the 
heap  in  the  middle  of  the  ground  floor  and 
kicked  the  nuts  with  her  brown  heels.  The 
women  all  knew  her,  for  every  day  when  the 
nuts  came  in  Maddalena  came  too.  So  they 
teased  her  and  petted  her  and  said  she  was 
growing  a  great  ragazza  and  soon  she  would  sit 
on  the  ground,  too,  and  crack  nuts  all  day  long 
with  sore  fingers,  and  much  might  she  like  it. 
Little  cared  Maddalena,  for  her  time  was  not 
yet  come. 

In  the  doorway  sat  pretty  Anita,  knitting  a 
blue  stocking  with  her  five  long,  crooked  needles. 
But  when  Maddalena  pulled  at  her  skirts  she 
stuck  the  ball  and  stocking  on  the  needles  and 
the  needles  in  her  hair  and  balancing  the  water 
jug  beside  them  took  the  child's  hand  and 
started  for  the  fountain.  Once  this  had  been 
a  mermaid  with  a  pretty,  curly  tail,  but  long 
ago  the  poor  pious  folk  wanted  a  Madonna, 
and  so  put  a  crown  on  its  head.  Thus  like 
many  another  idol  it  had  its  humorous  side. 

After  Anita  had  filled  her  jug  she  went 
knitting  along  the  road,  while  Maddalena  took 
a  pinch  of  her  skirt  and  ran  close  behind  her 
when  the  laden  donkeys  crowded  them  to  the 


MADDALENA'S  DAY  25 

wall,  or  the  cart  wheels  jolted  too  near  their 
bare  toes. 

There  were  great  baskets  of  beans  in  the 
doorways,  broad  and  yellow,  and  boiled  chest 
nuts  in  wooden  bowls,  and  fish  on  boards,  and 
bread  nailed  to  the  door  jambs,  and  macaroni 
hanging  like  veils  overhead.  But  when  Anita 
reached  her  home  she,  too,  had  to  join  the  nut 
crackers,  and  Maddalena  had  had  enough  of 
them  till  to-morrow. 

Great  black  clouds  were  piling  up  along  the 
mountains  and  the  wind  came  sweeping  down 
from  above,  napping  into  a  mad  dance  the 
garments  that  had  been  all  day  drying  on  the 
walls,  and  curling  the  dust  up  into  great  white 
clouds.  So  little  Maddalena  with  homing  in 
stinct  scampered  for  her  own  refuge,  whirled 
and  blown  like  a  brown  leaf  but  always  keeping 
a  straight  course  till  she  came  in  sight  of  old 
Caterina's  patched  blues  and  reds  prancing 
high  above  the  wall  and  her  mother's  strings  of 
orange  peel  flying  like  tethered  kites  across  her 
own  doorway.  Torrents  of  rain  followed  close 
behind  two  nimble  little  heels,  the  brown  hens 
flew  squawking  in  before  her,  and  little  Madda 
lena  was  safe  at  home. 


26  MADDALENA'S  DAY 

An  hour  later  barefoot  Agata  trudged 
sturdily  through  the  mud,  a  great  apronful  of 
dandelion  leaves  on  her  head,  and  under  them 
a  brown  loaf.  As  she  stooped  to  the  dim  en 
trance  the  room  grew  lighter  by  degrees  and 
she  saw  first  the  bed-cover  shining  white  above 
the  deep  pools  of  water,  then  the  gray  donkey 
bending  his  head  like  a  guardian  angel  over 
little  Maddalena,  who  lay  under  him  fast  asleep, 
with  both  chubby  arms  clasped  around  his  leg. 


OUR  KNIGHT  OF  THE  LAGOONS 

SlR,"  said  he,  "within  short  space  ye  shall 
know  that  I  am  of  god  kin."  "It  may  well  be," 
said  Sir  Kay,  the  seneschal,  "but  in  mockage 
ye  shall  be  called  La  Cote  Male  Taile,  that  is  as 
much  as  to  say  the  evil-shapen  coat." 

It  was  in  Chioggia  that  we  met  him.  He 
might  have  sunned  through  twelve  unvarying 
years,  but  with  the  air  and  dignity,  if  not  the 
substance,  of  a  man.  Pushed  well  back  from 
his  brown  forehead  sat  a  thing  of  slits  and 
tatters  and  fringed  brim  whose  origin  was  lost 
in  dumb  antiquity.  His  garments,  of  no 
special  color  or  texture,  though  diverse  and 
crying  for  scores  of  pins,  were  worn  with  the 
unconscious  ease  and  dignity  of  a  decayed  don. 
There  was  wholesome  pride  in  his  bearing — the 
pride  of  ancestral  garments  if  not  of  ancestry. 

We  were  doomed,  from  the  instant  he  re 
garded  us  with  a  casual  eye.  Never  was  meas 
ure  taken  more  swiftly,  more  adequately,  more 
deftly.  "Not  the  tempest,  but  the  sun,"  was 
the  legible  motto  in  that  one  gleam  of  his  eye. 


28 

He  was  as  sure  as  fate  against  all  prophecy,  all 
mental  reserves. 

He  had  some  pescatori  or  other  on  his  in 
destructible  tablets;  some  black  bit  of  picture; 
some  guesses  at  Bellini  hidden  from  the  multi 
tude;  some  chiesa  molto  grande;  some  boat  with 
rainbow  sails ;  some  surpassing  view. 

We  could  not  hear. 

He  paced  silently  beside  us,  a  little  removed, 
cannily  unconscious,  intent  on  his  own  thoughts. 

We  craved  the  joy  of  being  for  once  let  alone, 
of  finding  out  things  for  ourselves.  Every  ob 
ject  of  interest  in  Venice  had  been  pointed  out 
to  us,  insisted  upon,  until  the  sensitive  surfaces 
of  the  brain  were  bruised.  Venice  was  one  huge 
composite  of  pictures  archaic  and  middle-aged, 
of  altars,  rood-screens,  pulpits,  baptisteries, 
pillars,  miracles,  Ruskin's  must-be's,  bad  and 
good  legends,  beheaded  doges,  crime  and  tri 
umph,  dazzling  color,  weirdest  gloom. 

We  had  looked  forward  for  days  to  the  de 
light  of  learning,  by  our  own  processes,  about 
Chioggia.  Was  it  more  than  one  long,  arcaded 
street  with  shops  of  poor  little  wares  languidly, 
piteously  displayed ;  with  flyey  fruit-stands  full 
of  sticky  sweets ;  with  tables  of  wooden  things, 


OUR    KNIGHT    OF    THE    LAGOONS  29 

cotton  things,  linen  things,  woolen  things  even ; 
with  dingy  windows  full  of  cooking  utensils — on 
this  day  when  the  food  of  the  gods  seemed  the 
only  possible  thing,  in  remote  woodlands  by 
cool  streams;  with  blankets  and  aprons  and 
clumsy  garments  hung  to  catch  the  eye  and 
casually  shut  out  the  air  of  this  supreme  July 
afternoon? — And  we  found  out. 

There  was  always  our  special  Mordecai  in 
the  background,  not  for  an  instant  to  be  lost 
out  of  mind.  Still  he  was  small,  and  could  not 
hide  ravishing  views  of  crooked  cross-streets 
with  here  and  there  an  arch  for  an  old  woman 
to  mend  her  nets  under;  with  roofs  dripping 
vines  from  unseen,  undreamed-of  gardens ; 
shaded  doorways  with  rickety  family  tables 
propping  up  tumblers  of  water  tempered  with 
Chianti;  a  dog  curled  up  in  the  sunshine;  a  man 
sleeping  at  full  length  on  the  curb ;  a  flutter  of 
grayish  garments  drying  on  the  wall  enlivened 
by  a  splash  of  red  or  harlequin  jacket;  and  a 
glitter  of  the  sea  glorifying  the  far,  dark  end. 

Again  and  again  we  lost  ourselves — but  never 
our  little  knight !  Once  only,  when  his  attention 
was  diverted  by  a  kicking  donkey  and  the  con 
sequent  crowd,  we  slipped  guiltily  into  a  church 


30 

hung  with  votive  hearts  and  crutches,  and  sat 
long  in  the  still  semi-coolness.  But  a  hand  we 
knew  by  heart  was  quietly  ready  to  draw  aside 
the  leathern  curtain  when  we  tiptoed  hopefully 
out.  The  tattered  hat  by  courtesy  was  perked 
up  in  front  for  surer  vision.  He  had  a  prettier 
church. 

But  we  would  not  see  it. 

He  left  us  with  no  remonstrance  of  face, 
figure  or  gesture;  but  as  he  came  to  heel  we 
knew  that  we  were  two  weak  flies  enmeshed  in 
a  web,  bound  foot  and  wing  to  a  system  where 
individual  struggling  draws  the  bonds  closer. 

To  our  knight  we  were  worse  than  the  infidel 
in  our  cold  disregard  of  sacred  things,  though 
with  a  possible  final  chance  of  salvation  for 
which  he  watched,  "unhasting,  unresting." 

In  desperation  we  went  nearly  to  the  old  city 
gate,  waving  aside  mute  entreaties  of  attitude 
whenever  a  church  loomed  up  hopefully;  but 
the  sun  beyond  the  heavy  old  arcades  was  cruel, 
and  we  turned  back  to  the  cafe  at  the  water's 
edge,  at  last,  that  we  might  be  refreshed  under 
an  awning  and  watch  for  the  coming  of  our 
boat  that  would  divide  the  golden  stream  be 
tween  us  and  the  dream  city  on  the  edge  of  the 


OUR    KNIGHT    OF    THE    LAGOONS  31 

world  and  leave  us  to  unbroken  visions  as  the 
evening  glowed  and  cooled  about  us.  Here  at 
last  we  dropped  our  burdens,  which  were  our 
suffering  selves,  and  would  gladly  have  loosed 
our  shoes,  like  Ahasuerus. 

And  here  something  like  tardy  compassion 
found  us  off  guard  at  last.  It  had  been  gently, 
most  gently,  suggested  that  there  was  still  time, 
before  our  knight  discreetly,  delicately,  re 
moved  himself  some  paces  with  truest  courtesy 
that  he  might  not  look  upon  our  feast,  hitching 
his  rags  into  needed  relations,  and  nibbling  a 
casual  straw  as  digester  to  some  apocryphal 
meal. 

The  unthinking  moments  were  slipping  away 
into  an  unrecallable  past.  One  of  us  looked  up, 
then  the  other.  The  low  sun  shone  full  on  a 
little  brown  face  turned  away  in  doubt  at  last. 
It  was  no  longer  that  of  our  knight  of  the  la 
goons  ;  it  was  only  that  of  a  sadly  disappointed 
little  boy.  He  had  pinned  his  faith  to  a  kindly 
human  nature  that  had  no  real  substance,  and 
the  very  fabric  of  confidence  was  in  tatters  that 
his  garments  symbolized.  The  brave  corners  of 
his  mouth  drooped,  his  eyes  so  softly  brown 
glistened,  the  muscles  of  his  cheek  fell,  and 


32 

something  shone  in  a  deep  channel  it  had  un 
wittingly  made  for  itself.  He  had  done  his 
utmost  and  failed  absolutely.  He  had  ex 
hausted  his  resources  only  to  be  outwitted  by 
two  selfish,  well-fed  children  of  Adam.  He  was 
hungry.  We  had  eaten  in  his  presence.  The 
brutality  of  it  struck  home  to  us  like  a  mailed 
fist. 

We  missed  the  boat ;  we  said  we  did  not  care. 
What  was  one  more  sunset  even  on  the  Venetian 
lagoon?  We  had  sent  darkness  into  one  eager 
little  heart.  We  would  go  home  in  the  dark. 

We  sat  him  down  at  our  now  bare  table,  and 
in  scanty  Italian  bade  him  order  what  he  would, 
while  we  conjured  up  some  futile  errand  or 
other  to  pass  the  time,  that  his  courtesy  might 
not  shame  us.  When  we  came  back  he  had 
already  supped  on  brown  bread  and  black  coffee 
and  was  waiting,  standing  alert,  girded  up  and 
ready. 

His  face  radiated  joy;  his  very  tatters  flew 
pennons  of  triumph.  He  dragged  us  through 
the  sunshine  with  a  visible  dumb  fear  in  his  eyes 
that  the  boat  was  coming.  We  dismissed  the 
fear,  and  his  countenance  shone.  He  flew  us 
over  bridges,  he  ran  us  into  churches.  The 


OUE    KNIGHT    OF    THE    LAGOONS  33 

very  sacristan  was  astonished,  and  snatched  up 
the  smoky,  rickety  curtains  with  unseemly 
haste.  Not  that  there  was  anything  special  to 
be  seen,  or  worth  while  if  it  could  have  been. 
But  it  was  our  knight's  hour  of  triumph  and 
the  very  earth  thrilled  with  it.  In  his  throb 
bing  brain  and  heart  he  saw  visions  of  impos 
sible  churches  crowded  with  mouldy  saints. 
The  rapture  in  his  soul  obscured  every  faculty, 
every  sensation  save  one. 

The  time  was  short  indeed,  even  now;  but  he 
remembered  perhaps  how  weeds  make  up  for  op 
portunity  and  round  out  their  seeds  in  haste. 
Chioggia  was  a  map  that  he  unrolled  and 
spread  out  before  us — a  world  of  which  he  was 
at  present  the  custodian.  It  embraced  the 
fishing  fleet  on  the  lagoon  whose  sails  were  not 
yet  unfurled.  Presently,  he  assured  us,  they 
would  bloom  like  flowers  of  the  garden  in  orange 
and  blue  and  red. 

The  two  old  pescatori  grinned  as  he  dashed 
us  at  them  and  rolled  out  the  names  of  their 
catch.  But  they  were  already  packing  away 
their  few  tokens  and  remains,  and  knew  well 
that  we  preferred  not  to  see  them.  Three  small 
panfish  of  unknown  species,  a  few  mussels  in  the 


34 

bottom  of  a  basket,  and  a  slippery,  scaly  board, 
were  all  that  was  left  to  be  commented  upon  in 
the  softest  Italian  and  with  sublimest  faith.  It 
had  been  a  great  catch.  Like  the  best  joys  of 
many  of  us,  all  was  in  the  past  tense. 

Too  soon  the  steamer  touched  the  dock;  and 
as  we  dropped  heavy  soldi  into  the  grimy,  un 
resisting  hand  of  this  scion  of  an  unscrubbed 
race,  he  nodded  his  head  at  us  with  a  cheerful 
sense  of  ultimate  possession;  and  by  the  light 
of  his  eyes  we  knew  that  if  we  came  again  years 
hence,  when  la  cote  male  taile  itself  was  lost  in 
universal  dust,  we  should  find  the  core  of  it  all, 
our  knight  sans  peur  et  sans  reprochey  waiting 
for  us  at  the  water's  edge,  in  an  archaic  leisure 
forever  lost  out  of  our  more  prudent  world. 


A  CORNER  OF  VENICE 

THERE  is  a  small,  historic  canal  in  Venice, 
winding  its  short  way  between  the  Grand  Canal 
and  that  of  the  Giudecca.  Standing  midway, 
one  sees  the  high  beaks  of  gliding  gondolas  on 
the  one  hand,  and  on  the  other  the  tall  masts 
and  orange  sails  against  the  pale  background 
of  the  old  Giudecca  palaces. 

It  was  across  this  narrow  rio  that  the  devout 
little  princess  helped  of  the  Virgin  walked  dry- 
shod  when  the  gondoliers  were  forbidden  to  take 
her  to  the  tiny  church  long  called  by  her  name, 
San  Vio,  where  she  "wasted  all  her  time"  before 
its  altar. 

Here  is  none  of  the  glamour  of  the  Grand 
Canal,  with  its  stately,  leaning  palaces,  its  gay 
gondolas,  and  busy  traffic;  but  in  its  place  the 
unadulterated  life  of  the  people.  Down  the 
marble  or  stuccoed  steps  of  the  rio  parapet  to 
the  canal  itself  mothers  bring  their  babes  for 
a  dip,  or  launch  some  brown  urchin  in  his  tight 
shirt,  tethered  by  calico  leading  strings,  with  a 


36 

broken  box  cover  or  bit  of  plank  to  bear  his 
weight  till  he  can  swim  alone. 

Here  come  the  contadine  in  pink  bodice,  blue 
skirt,  purple  apron,  and  flowered  slippers  to 
stand  on  the  lowest  step  and  wash  the  rainbow 
garments  which  look  no  cleaner  as  they  dry  on 
the  walls,  but  are  always  a  joy  to  the  eye  if  not 
to  the  imagination. 

When  the  tall  ships  come  in  the  blue  and 
white  sailors  throng  the  way  with  a  worship 
ing  crowd  at  their  heels — little  hangers-on, 
drawn  by  any  new  sensation,  fascinated  by  the 
wheezy  strains  of  an  accordion  or  the  rattle 
and  clang  of  a  tambourine.  Now  it  is  man  and 
monkey,  and  a  tambourine  struck  under  every 
window,  and  then  held  up  for  soldi;  and  the 
little  rabble  akin  to  the  monkey,  crust  in  hand, 
baby  on  shoulder,  barefoot  or  clacking  in 
sandals,  hovering  like  happy  cherubs,  alive  all 
over  and  shrieking  with  laughter. 

Now  it  is  a  funeral  procession  in  the  early 
morning ;  the  chanting  priests  making  their  way 
among  the  crowd,  the  crucifix  leading,  the  tall 
candles  tipping  and  dripping,  the  red-draped 
bier  and  red-gowned  bearers,  the  little  children 
with  flowers,  the  two  or  three  black-veiled  women 


A    CORNER    OF    VENICE  37 

neighbors,  like  those  other  faithful  three,  "last 
at  the  cross,  first  at  the  sepulchre,"  and  a 
huddling  host  of  little  bare  heads  and  pattering 
feet.  The  shouts  and  cries  pour  out  of  every 
narrow  lane  and  doorway  and  make  a  weird 
Pilgrim  Chorus  as  the  priests  go  chanting  on  to 
the  bridge,  where  they  rise  against  the  pale 
background  of  the  Giudecca,  black  and  white 
standard,  crucifix,  candles  flaring  yellow-white 
in  the  sunlight,  red  bier  and  red  bearers,  and 
mongrel,  following  throng,  like  some  mediaeval 
canvas  crowded  with  life  and  death  hand  in 
hand. 

Then  come  man  and  monkey  again  and  the 
shrill  little  rabble  pours  back,  every  cranny  and 
doorway  contributing  to  its  volume;  and  with 
shrieks  of  tumbling  laughter,  new  with  each  new 
occasion,  the  little-great  troupe  sweeps  on  to 
the  beat  of  the  tambourine  and  the  clink  here 
and  there  of  soldi  on  the  fondamenta. 

In  the  early  morning  the  gondoliers  come 
with  their  boats,  bringing  cushions  and  carpets 
from  some  stronghold  in  the  alley,  polishing 
the  brass  horses,  dusting  the  carpets,  singing  at 
their  work  lustily,  with  no  thought  of  lazy 
sleepers,  dreaming  only  of  the  glory  of  the 


38 

morning.  It  is  a  new  day;  and  life  is  fuller 
than  in  Eden.  Italy  never  sleeps.  There  may 
be  a  siesta,  a  reposing  of  one's  self  at  noonday, 
when  the  sun  beats  fiercest,  but  at  night  from 
farthest  canal  to  noblest  piazza  all  is  music, 
life,  great  overflowing  life,  but  hushed  and 
reverent  when  the  band  plays. 

The  night  is  dark,  perhaps,  but  for  the  stars 
that  shine  down  and  quiver  in  the  wide  lagoon, 
and  those  other  stars  that  twinkle  at  the  gon 
dola  bows.  But  like  great  birds  of  passage  the 
boats  gather  and  lean  toward  the  piazza  where 
Florian's  is  always  bright  and  the  waiters  slide 
noiselessly  to  and  fro  among  the  innumerable 
tables,  and  the  band  plays. 

The  quietest  of  crowds  fills  the  spaces  beyond 
— whole  families — two  or  three  astonishingly 
young  children  perhaps  holding  by  the  mother's 
red  or  blue  skirts  or  the  corner  of  her  orange  or 
red  apron,  a  round-eyed  bambino  on  her  shoul 
der  or  held  in  the  angle  of  an  arm  that  never 
tires. 

The  music  swells  and  falls  and  swells  again ; 
and  on  special  occasions  one  might  walk  on  the 
heads  of  the  standing  crowd.  But  there  is  no 
disorder,  no  noisy  applause ;  only  a  deep  breath 


A    CORNER    OF    VENICE  39 

of  appreciation  passing  along  like  a  ripple  of 
the  lagoon  when  its  depths  are  stirred. 

The  babes  of  our  own  land  were  bathed,  fed 
hygienically  hours  ago,  prayed  with,  prayed 
over,  and  soothed  to  sleep  in  soft  beds  by  fairy 
tale  or  Scripture  story;  but  these  waifs  of  sea 
and  sun,  when  the  last  gondola  turns  its  prow 
homeward  and  the  lights  disappear,  gnaw  the 
crust  that  keeps  their  teeth  so  white  and  strong, 
cross  themselves  before  any  chance  shrine,  and 
curl  up  somewhere,  somehow,  to  "repose  them 
selves"  till  the  new  break  of  day  that  holds  so 
much  mystery  and  delight  in  store. 


THE  OLD  CUSTODE  AT  LUCCA 

W  E  always  thought  and  spoke  of  him  as  our 
old  custode.  Not  on  account  of  his  years,  which 
were  many,  but  chiefly  because  of  an  unspoken 
tenderness  for  the  childlike  nature  of  the  man 
as  well  as  for  the  pathetic  lines  of  face  and 
figure — those  patient,  unresisting  lines  common 
to  Italy,  as  if  it  were  all  in  the  Divine  plan 
which  it  were  atheism  to  set  one's  will  against. 
He  was  small,  and  slight.  His  decent  black 
habit,  neat  linen,  and  the  dull  finish  of  his  shoes 
— even  the  careful  way  his  scant,  pale  hair  was 
combed  around  his  thin  ears  below  nature's  wide 
tonsure — bespoke  scrupulous  attention  to  de 
tails.  We  saw  him  first  in  the  dim  light  of 
Lucca's  noble  Duomo,  slowly  carrying  a  too-big 
ladder,  and  lighting  every  little  lamp  before 
every  shrine,  great  or  small — an  act  of  devotion 
that  his  guardian  angel  as  well  as  we  must  have 
been  quick  to  set  down  with  indelible  pencil.  He 
made  us  think,  with  utmost  reverence,  of  the 
Great  Exemplar  bowed  under  the  weight  of  the 
cross. 


THE    OLD    CUSTODE    AT    LUCCA  41 

His  pale  eyes,  set  in  thinnest  white  frame 
work,  did  not  look  together  at  us,  but  collected 
their  several  rays  after  an  instant.  Perhaps 
that  was  why  he  never  knew  us  if  we  absented 
ourselves  for  a  day,  but  slowly  remembered ;  we 
were  sure  of  it  as  the  flitting  smile  came  back. 
The  dim  old  figure  seemed  too  slight  for  the 
overpowering  weight  of  the  cathedral.  Indeed 
it  might  well  have  been  its  fault  that  the  back 
bent  a  trifle  from  the  hips  and  the  legs  bowed  a 
bit  as  if  bearing  heavy  shoulders  not  his  own. 

His  services  were  never  proffered,  never  sug 
gested;  but  if  we  needed  him  he  was  always 
there.  Coming  in  to  rest  from  the  glare  of  the 
streets  in  the  cool  dusk  which  was  at  first  utter 
blackness  we  thought  he  was  gone,  possibly  to 
his  noonday  meal,  though  we  could  never  con 
nect  him  with  any  grosser  sustenance  than  the 
sacramental  bread.  Not  so.  As  our  pupils 
expanded  in  the  wide  dark  dotted  with  altar 
candles  like  fireflies,  we  could  dimly  see  a  spirit- 
like  figure  carrying  the  cruel  ladder  tall  enough 
for  Hercules,  or  sitting  in  meek,  devotional  atti 
tude  near  some  out-of-the-way  shrine ;  and  until 
we  stood  silently  before  him  he  did  not  look  up. 


42 

Even  then  it  was  not  with  quick  recognition, 
only  a  slow  drawing  into  focus  of  his  faculties. 

He  accepted  us  as  the  forestieri  who  loved 
above  all  things  in  his  sacred  world  the  Ma 
donna  of  Fra  Bartolommeo,  with  its  Saint 
Stephen — his  half-turned-away  face  full  of  ex 
quisite  young  sweetness — and  its  young  Saint 
John,  all  dignity,  beauty  and  grace.  Our  old 
oust  ode,  as  he  took  down  one  by  one  the  altar 
candles  that  we  might  have  a  perfect  view,  sat 
in  quiet  content  and  happy  appreciation  as 
long  as  we  chose,  never  moving  to  draw  the 
curtain  until  we  passed  out. 

Then,  when  we  stood  by  the  beautiful,  re 
cumbent  figure  of  the  young  Princess  Ilaria,  to 
whose  house  belongs  the  stately  Guinigi  Tower 
with  trees  growing  on  its  top,  he  told,  in  slow 
words  adapted  to  our  comprehension,  the  story 
of  one  too-young  dead,  lingering  fondly  beside 
the  exquisite  form  with  its  tresses  of  hair 
loosened  about  the  temples  below  the  fillet  as 
if  a  soft  wind  had  blown  them  from  their  bands. 

In  the  same  slow  way  he  answered,  one  day, 
our  question  about  the  suspended  iron  grill  in 
the  nave  which  we  in  our  frank  ignorance  had 
taken  for  Saint  Lawrence's  symbol.  Far  from 


THE    OLD    CUSTODE    AT    LUCCA  43 

it.  On  holiest  days  its  every  point  was  wound 
with  tow,  lighted  when  the  Bishop  said,  "Gloria 
in  Excelsis,"  with  a  wondrous  blaze — pouff! 
then  dying  away  at  the  "Sic  transit  gloria 
mundi."  The  old  man's  hands  fell  and  he  stood 
an  instant  in  reverie;  then  gently  drew  us 
toward  the  Tempietto  of  Matteo  Civitale,  not 
by  word,  scarcely  by  gesture ;  but  before  we 
were  aware  we  were  listening  with  strained  at 
tention  to  the  story  of  this  temple  within  a 
greater,  built  by  "our  Civitale,  our  sculptor," 
for  the  safe-keeping  of  the  glorious  Volto  Santo 
miraculously  brought  to  Lucca  centuries  ago. 

In  simplest  words  of  his  mother  tongue  our 
custode  courteously  acknowledged  our  limita 
tions,  telling  us  how  Nicodemus,  that  master  in 
Israel,  was  minded  to  make  a  holy  crucifix  more 
than  twice  the  height  of  a  man,  from  a  cedar 
tree  of  Lebanon ;  how  he  fashioned  with  his  own 
hands  the  cross  and  the  seamless  garment 
reaching  to  the  feet,  but  dared  not  attempt  the 
face. 

Then  came  the  first  miracle.  While  he  slept 
an  angel  descended  and  carved  a  face  of  inef 
fable  piety  and  sweetness  such  as  mortal  man 
had  never  seen.  It  was  secluded  and  carefully 


44  MADDALENA'S  DAY 

shielded  from  harm  until  the  year  782  when  a 
pilgrim  bishop  instructed  by  an  angel  (the 
same,  we  wondered,  who  had  carved  the  face?) 
placed  it  on  board  an  empty  bark  at  Joppa  and 
committed  it  to  the  care  of  the  sea.  The  bark, 
angelically  guided,  came  to  Luni,  the  old  city 
near  Spezia,  where  was  Giovanni,  Bishop  of 
Lucca.  But,  this  being  naturally  a  matter  of 
dissension,  the  people  objected  to  its  being 
taken  away. 

At  last  they  agreed  that  it  should  be  put  on 
a  cart  drawn  by  two  white  oxen,  and  that  they 
would  accept  this  guidance.  Then,  with  a 
gleam  of  holy  joy  and  a  smile  of  childlike  ten 
derness,  the  old  custode  spread  two  fingers  of 
his  right  hand,  the  one  signifying  the  road  to 
Spezia,  the  other  to  his  beloved  Lucca,  and 
traced  with  another  finger  along  the  two  the 
course  the  oxen  took.  And  here  is  its  home,  as 
was  Heaven's  will,  where  come  hosts  of  the  de 
vout  from  many  lands  to  see  the  miracles 
wrought  by  it.  The  greatest  day  in  Lucca's 
year  is  that  on  which  the  Volto  Santo  is  shown 
to  the  adoring  multitude,  adorned  with  richest 
robe  and  priceless  jewels  lavished  upon  it  by  the 
faithful. 


THE    OLD    CUSTODE    AT    LUCCA  45 

The  old  custode's  face  brightened  through 
all  its  lines  of  years  and  weariness  as  he  showed 
us  in  a  dim  corner  of  the  Duomo  the  picture  of 
two  hills — one  where  stood  three  faintly  out 
lined  crosses,  the  other  where  vigorous  men 
were  hewing  down  a  mighty  tree.  In  the  valley 
between,  Nicodemus  himself  was  designing  the 
crucifix,  and  in  the  foreground  two  meek  white 
oxen,  broad-horned  and  powerful,  were  at  last 
bearing  it  away  in  a  cart,  supported  upright 
by  the  arms  of  the  faithful  disciple  whom  Jesus 
loved. 

It  was  the  supreme  effort  of  our  old  guide, 
and  if  his  loyal  spirit  had  gently  burst  its  bonds 
and  ascended  before  our  eyes  it  would  not  have 
been  out  of  keeping. 

So  it  was  with  no  little  anxiety  that  we 
looked  for  him  next  day  to  thank  him  in  words, 
and  in  more  substantial  tokens — which  he 
scarcely  saw — for  all  he  had  done  for  us.  The 
sum  of  it  he  will  never  know.  But  we  might 
have  had  more  faith  after  all  our  lessons ;  for 
he  met  us  in  the  nave  with  a  smile  of  recog 
nition,  so  quickened  were  his  own  faculties  by 
the  great  recital;  went  before  us  and  drew,  as 
so  often  before,  the  curtain  from  Fra  Bartolom- 


46 

meo's  glorious  Madonna,  removed  the  altar 
candles,  and  sat  down  patiently  while  we  took  a 
long  last  look,  as  one  looks  on  a  face  never  to 
be  seen  here  again.  His  final  fee  lay  slackly  in 
one  hand,  and  with  the  other  laid  on  his  breast 
he  bowed  us  a  courteous,  prolonged  addio. 


THE  SPELL  OF  PISA 

WHO  can  name  the  spell  of  Pisa,  the  En 
chanting?  You  descend  upon  its  snowy  plain 
through  uncounted  tunnels  that  Dante  should 
have  prophesied — tunnels  of  darkness  and 
smoke,  and  many  of  intolerable  length — from 
which  you  trundle  out  breathless  into  scenes  of 
dreamlike  beauty.  Point  after  point  dips  its 
intense  greenness  into  the  exaggerated  blue  of 
the  sea.  Walled  roads  climb  up  and  up,  zig 
zagging  among  gray  olives  and  black-green 
cypresses.  Vineyards  on  endless  terraces  are 
salad-green ;  their  tender  vines  droop  from  tree 
to  tree,  are  woven  from  pole  to  pole.  Scarlet 
poppies  in  the  grass  suggest  the  note  of  splen 
dor  for  women's  bodices,  skirts,  kerchiefs. 
Strong,  gipsy-brown  mothers  and  little  children 
turn  the  hay,  weed  the  crops,  dig  the  soil,  with 
gay  laughter  and  little  trills  of  song.  Life  is 
jubilant,  unforeboding. 

Then  comes  the  Pisan  plain,  with  background 
of  blue  mountains,  and  in  its  midst  the  softly 


48  MADDALENA'S  DAY 

flowing  Arno,  coming  down  from  Florence 
yellow  as  the  Tiber,  curved  here  "like  a  delicate 
section  of  Giotto's  O." 

On  both  banks  rise  the  palaces  of  Pisa,  noble, 
silent,  like  a  dream  of  mediaeval  glory.  Little 
Santa  Maria  della  Spina,  with  its  cherished 
fragment  of  the  Crown  of  Thorns,  hangs  on  the 
yellow-brown  wall  like  the  chief  jewel  of  a  neck 
lace,  its  tiny  towers  of  carved  marble  like  a 
child's  toy  against  the  mounting  background 
of  old  palaces.  In  centuries  past  its  Messa  dei 
Cacciatori  (Mass  of  the  Huntsmen)  was  cele 
brated  as  early  as  two  or  three  o'clock,  that  the 
Pisan  might  mount  before  daybreak  with  his 
soul  duly  strengthened  and  comforted. 

Pisa's  churches  are  many  and  wonderful, 
built  from  spoils  of  the  infidel.  But  this  is  not 
its  charm.  Neither  can  you  find  it  in  its  fres 
coed  Campo  Santo — the  proud  boast  of  its 
people ;  nor  in  its  Campanile  that  looks  so  fool 
ish,  so  flippant  in  its  regal  beauty.  Neither  is 
it  in  the  Duomo  with  its  barbaric  splendor;  its 
Baptistery  with  the  exquisite  Niccolo  Pisano 
pulpit  whose  porphyry  pillars  stand  on  lions — 
its  rose-point  marble  discs  of  lace  that  it  seems 
possible  to  lift,  petal  by  petal.  Nor  is  it  in  its 


THE    SPELL    OF    PISA  49 

Chiesa  dei  Cavalieri — where  in  the  sixteenth 
century  the  Knights  of  Saint  Stephen  vowed  to 
rid  the  Mediterranean  of  pirates,  to  redeem 
Christian  captives,  and  propagate  the  true  re 
ligion — with  its  banners  of  exquisite  design, 
texture  and  coloring,  its  Saracen  standards 
with  the  silver  crescent,  proud  record  of  over 
coming  the  infidel  in  the  strength  of  faith;  nor 
yet  is  it  in  the  gemlike  della  Spina  which 
cheered  the  hearts  and  souls  of  mediaeval  hunts 
men  before  the  chase. 

Its  streets  are  white  with  dust;  at  noonday 
the  glare  is  intolerable.  But  its  river  runs 
gently  rippling  between  its  walls ;  its  birds  sing 
all  day  long;  and  the  people,  with  happy,  un- 
foreboding  hearts,  sing  with  the  birds,  and  with 
as  little  care  for  to-morrow.  The  ragged,  bare 
foot  children  dance  to  the  joyous  hurdy-gurdy; 
the  urchin  trundling  a  heavy  barrow  stops  to 
break  off  a  bit  of  his  bread-crust,  hard  as  the 
nether  millstone  to  Western  teeth,  taking  his 
noonday  meal  as  he  goes,  and  whistling  bits  of 
classic  song  when  it  is  done. 

The  hard  roll  and  the  occasional  flask  of 
Chianti,  these  sustain  life ;  and  if  by  chance  you 
meet  a  strong,  brown  old  woman  with  her  apron 


50 

full  of  salad  gathered  anywhere,  she  is  probably 
cheering  herself  with  a  green  leaf  or  two  by  the 
way.  She  can  gather  more  as  she  goes,  from 
the  shadow  of  any  wall. 

It  is  a  fete  day  perhaps,  and  the  bridges  and 
municipal  buildings  are  adorned  with  red,  white 
and  green  banners.  The  crowd  cheers  at  the 
heels  of  the  band,  which  is  playing  the  national 
air.  But  in  place  of  the  uproarious  sounds  we 
are  accustomed  to  this  is  like  the  music  of  swung 
castanets. 

By  day  the  Pisan  palaces  lie  still  as  sleepy 
mediaeval  towns  in  the  Campo  Santo  frescoes  of 
Benozzo  Gozzoli.  The  strong,  musical  cry  of 
the  street  vender  rises  like  the  chant  of  intoning 
priests.  Does  he  learn  it  in  the  Cathedral? 
Has  it  filtered  through  his  ducts  and  become  an 
unconscious  part  of  himself? 

At  night  the  palaces  wake  and  breathe  again. 
Radiant  life  streams  forth;  great  families  meet 
other  great  families  on  the  Lungarno,  ex 
change  rapid  greetings  and  go  on  to  meet 
others,  children  and  nurses  in  their  train.  All 
night  the  streets  ring  with  happy  laughter, 
sudden  bursts  of  song  like  the  startling  trill  of 
the  nightingale  invading  one's  dreams  and 


THE    SPELL    OF    PISA  51 

chasing  away  sleep,  until  one  lies  in  quiet  ex 
pectancy,  undisturbed,  yet  waiting  and  listen 
ing.  Does  Italy  never  sleep?  From  midnight 
until  the  cheery  whistle  of  the  street-sweeper 
announces  the  dawn  the  tide  rolls  ceaselessly 
on.  Toward  morning  it  flags  a  little;  there  are 
shorter  intervals  between  the  patter  of  feet,  the 
contagious  laughter,  the  murmur  of  conversa 
tion,  the  roll  of  wheels,  the  sharp  snap  of  the 
whip.  Then  comes  the  steady  scrape,  scrape  of 
the  street  cleaner,  and  lo !  a  new  day. 

Under  the  hotel  windows,  as  the  shadows 
begin  again  to  lengthen,  a  hurdy-gurdy  grinds 
out  a  quick  measure.  From  everywhere,  like 
Deucalion's  crop,  spring  up  little  barefoot 
creatures ;  some  with  dingy  kerchiefs  covering 
curly  locks,  some  with  two  little  bobbing,  un- 
coiffed  braids  tied  with  twine.  There  are  but 
three  pair  of  shoes  among  the  dozen  and  one 
pair  of  sabots  which  are  kicked  off  to  the  gutter 
or  sidewalk. 

The  gay  whirl  begins,  with  soft  laughter  and 
irrepressible  glee.  People  flock  from  barber 
shop  and  wine  cellar;  porters,  hotel  waiters, 
mothers,  and  jeering  young  brothers,  till  fifty, 
sixty  bystanders  ring  the  little  wild  group 


52 

around.  The  hoarse  bray  of  the  automobile 
scatters  them  for  a  moment  as  the  great  Jugger 
naut  nearly  fills  the  street.  It  goes  on  and  they 
form  again,  balancing,  retreating,  with  butter 
fly  grace,  these  babes  who  have  never  been 
taught.  Great  mother  nature  keeps  them  so 
close  to  her  heart  that  they  learn  all  her 
mysteries.  Now  two  of  the  littlest  whirl 
against  a  somber  gentleman  who  extricates  him 
self  cheerfully.  A  bicycle  scatters  them,  then 
a  dull  donkey  cart,  and  again  they  flit  like  their 
cousin  sparrows  back  of  the  protecting  cause 
of  their  exquisite  joy.  Three  jeering  small 
boys  who  have  looked  on  with  patience  clasp 
each  other  clumsily  and  attempt  a  triangular 
hop,  but  no  one  notices  them. 

And  how  the  babies  dance !  Bare,  dirty — oh, 
so  dirty! — thin  little  five-year-old  legs;  blue 
skirts  and  red  skirts,  and  skirts  of  no  color, 
one  split  down  the  back,  and  others  insecure  of 
fastening.  In  pauses  of  the  enchanting  music 
to  which  they  keep  such  perfect  time,  they  fan 
their  hot  brown  faces  with  their  skirts,  then  go 
at  it  again.  More  people  gather  to  thicken  the 
circle;  old  women  bent  and  dingy,  young, 
strong  mothers  with  babes  for  once  wide  awake 


THE    SPELL    OF    PISA  53 

on  their  shoulders — a  rainbow  group,  silent, 
ecstatic. 

Here,  then,  is  the  charm  of  Pisa  in  a  symbol : 
— life  which  is  more  than  living,  joy  which  is 
more  than  meat  and  raiment.  Children  of  earth 
and  sun,  happy  with  Greek  abandon,  sowing 
heedless  of  the  reaping,  standing  tiptoe  between 
yesterday  and  to-morrow.  Intense  for  one  glad 
moment,  whether  telling  their  beads  in  the  mag 
nificent  Duomo,  or  leaping  like  baby  fauns  in 
the  untrained  joy  of  being,  each  sunrising 
makes  a  new  day  full  of  sweet  surprises,  each 
night  closes  the  scene  with  the  little  flock  hover 
ing  near  gay  promenaders  on  the  Lungarno. 
At  the  brightly  lit  hotel  many  a  tiny,  gipsy 
hand  is  stretched  for  the  soldi  seldom  refused. 

Let  us  eat  and  drink  and  sleep — for  to 
morrow  we  live  again!  This  is  the  spell  that 
binds  us  to  Pisa,  the  well-beloved;  beside  which 
her  Tower  and  Duomo  and  Baptistery  and 
Campo  Santo,  her  Arno  and  her  palaces  are  but 
things. 


A  FOOTPATH  IN  PROVENCE 

JUST  a  little  lonesome  footpath  turning  its 
back  on  the  sea  to  climb  these  Mountains  of 
the  Moors. 

First  a  road  formulates  itself  from  the  by 
ways  of  the  crumbling  old  town.  The  houses, 
herded  together  in  a  sort  of  arrested  panic, 
look  every  way  and  reach  across  to  each  other 
helplessly.  Dark,  trenchlike  ways  lead  past 
dens  and  holes  in  the  walls  where  women  dry 
rags  and  knit  and  children  play  in  the  trickle 
of  ditch  water  that  helps  define  the  street. 
Horses  of  the  better  sort  are  stabled  here. 
Human  beings  give  them  precedence,  and  oc 
cupy  whatever  small  space  they  do  not  require. 

The  great  plain  lies  beyond.  Where  the  sea 
once  swept  are  broad  waves  of  color  from  mar 
ket  and  flower  gardens,  and  the  constant  smoke 
of  the  Vallauris  potteries  a  mile  and  more  away. 

But  the  old  church  of  St.  Paul,  dating  from 
the  eleventh  century,  turns  its  back  on  all  this 
as  well  as  on  1'Hermitage  crowning  a  height 
across  the  plain,  in  hot  haste  to  escape  and 
climb  the  mountain  side ;  as  if  the  old,  maraud- 


A    FOOTPATH    IN    PROVENCE  55 

ing  foes,  or  Hercules  himself  who  often  sum 
mered  here,  were  at  its  heels.  "The  church 
would  be  pretty  if  washed,"  says  Monsieur 
PAbbe,  who  shows  its  altars  and  votive  offerings 
with  modified  pride.  He  is  only  a  visiting  Abbe 
from  a  town  with  a  historic  name  and,  let  us 
hope,  a  cleaner  church. 

The  narrow,  black  streets  flee  along  with  old 
St.  Paul's  and  push  their  way  up  the  mountains 
that  lie  six  hundred  and  fifty  feet  above  the 
sea;  and  the  burnt  roofs  of  the  houses,  seen 
from  above,  cower  and  cling  so  close  that  they 
might  serve  for  pavement.  It  is  time  that  has 
charred  them.  Here  and  there  a  few  reddish 
tiles  break  the  monotony,  but  for  the  most  part 
the  old  town  is  a  fused  mass  of  strange  elements. 

From  the  hopeless  tangle  of  crooked  foot 
ways  that  scarcely  serve  to  divide  the  houses 
two  start  out  with  decision  to  explore  the 
heights.  One  climbs  quite  into  the  open  above 
the  church,  and  getting  its  bearings  hurries  on 
to  the  chateau  over  a  rocky  path  worn  hollow 
as  a  cradle  by  the  feet  of  forgotten  generations. 

There  are  great  views  from  the  heights.  But 
long  before  they  are  reached  you  come  to  a  dead 
wall  with  all  manner  of  creeping  things  growing 


56 

on  and  water  falling  over  it ; — English  ivy  that 
has  hurried  to  cover  the  unsightliness  till  it 
forgot  to  shape  its  earlier  leaves,  but  remem 
bered  higher  up  to  point  and  polish  them  with 
zeal.  There  they  are  as  perfect  and  beautiful 
in  shape  as  the  Dryburgh  Abbey  variety  that 
we  cherish  in  pots  at  home.  Solanum  that  blos 
soms  in  lavender  when  its  time  comes  crowds 
the  ivy ;  cacti  of  every  degree  push  out  at  every 
crack  and  cranny  and  flourish  on  air  and 
memory. 

It  seems  the  end  of  this  strange  world,  with 
ancient  history  at  its  feet  and  modern  life  dully 
spanning  the  chasm,  when  suddenly,  like  a 
miraculous  creation,  a  man  comes  stepping  out 
of  the  impossible  Beyond  with  a  flock  of  sheep 
— a  harmless,  sunburnt  brigand  in  rags,  with 
pointed  hat  and  crooked  stick,  who  responds  to 
your  bon  jour  with  dignity. 

Another  path  lagging  up  to  the  left  from  the 
old  blackened  town  stops  to  breathe  on  a  level 
with  the  great  white  hotel  that  stands  apart  on 
a  coigne  of  rock  commanding  the  harbor  and 
the  sunny  isles  that  shut  it  in. 

Here  begins  a  roadway  which  you  reach  from 
the  hotel's  upper  floor.  But  it  is  in  haste  to  find 


A    FOOTPATH    IN    PROVENCE  57 

the  new  town,  and  so  curves  past  many  a  villa 
with  enchanting  terrace-gardens  and  mossy 
pools  where  lily  pads  float  and  frogs  make  night 
solemn — gardens  whose  soil  is  like  the  shale  of 
the  stone-breaker's  refuse,  above  which  roses 
bloom,  and  everything  that  has  the  breath  of 
life  praises  the  Lord  in  fragrance  and  color 
endlessly. 

Lingering  past  the  upper  garden  gates  of 
Ste.  Lucie,  whose  walls  are  hidden  by  masses  of 
purple  passion  vine,  the  roadway  runs  down 
under  a  bridge  that  spans  it  as  if  it  were  a 
stream,  connecting  the  villa  with  Chalet  La 
Solitude  which  rises  from  a  sea  of  roses  at  high 
tide,  and  loses  itself  in  the  new  town  at  the  foot 
of  the  Avenue  de  la  Pierre  Glissante.  In  this 
chalet  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  lived  amid  sun 
shine  and  roses,  looking  wistfully  after  lost 
health  but  losing  nothing  of  the  undying  charm 
of  plain  and  mountain  and  sea  and  the  reckless 
waste  of  beauty  and  perfume — some  of  which 
he  caught  and  stored  up  for  all  time  in  poems. 

Before  the  sharp  descent  comes  a  parting  of 
the  ways.  Through  olive  and  fig  and  mulberry, 
almonds  in  exquisite  bloom,  eucalyptus,  beech 
and  fir,  runs  and  creeps  and  goes  astray  a  path 


58 

such  as  a  child,  a  dog,  a  wild  goat  might  make. 
It  has  escaped  from  the  highway's  motherly 
leading  strings,  with  all  the  glee  of  freedom  and 
liberty  at  large.  It  thinks  about  nothing  at  all. 
It  stops  at  a  butterfly  on  a  thistle,  turns  aside 
for  a  big  rock,  and  forgets.  It  dips  itself  in  a 
run  of  sweet  water,  dries  itself  on  the  warm  side 
of  a  boulder,  reaches  up  for  the  hard  green  figs 
hidden  by  greener  leaves,  pricks  itself  on  the 
wild  rose  thorns,  and  sits  down  to  consider. 

But  this  is  the  only  thinking  it  does  till  it 
stands  under  the  ruined  walls  far  above,  and 
looks  out  on  the  green-blue  Mediterranean 
where  ships  of  the  French  fleet  lie  at  anchor.  It 
steps  over  a  clean  little  rill,  tiptoes  on  sharp 
edges  of  stone  that  crops  out  endwise  and  is 
cruel  to  the  foot,  drops  down  to  a  little  hollow 
where  women  endlessly  wash  clothes  that  are 
never  clean  and  dry  them  on  blossoming  wild 
rose  bushes,  olive  boughs,  prickly  vines — any 
thing  that  is  unresisting. 

The  women  respond  cheerily  to  your  bon 
jour  with  engaging,  distant  courtesy,  but  are 
distinctly  interested  in  their  work  and  only  in 
cidentally  in  your  presence.  If  you  choose  to 
wander  on  with  a  different  aim  in  life,  to  en- 


A    FOOTPATH    IN    PROVENCE  59 

snare  butterflies  in  the  sunny  meadow  beyond, 
or  idly  collect  fleurs  sauvages,  it  is  of  no  inter 
est  whatsoever  to  them.  They  do  not  even 
suspect  you  of  concealed  plans  under  your  air 
of  indifference,  but  leave  their  scrubbed  rags  in 
the  sunshine  and  sweet  breeze  with  the  faith  of 
little  children. 

The  pretty  pool  left  by  a  tiny  crooked  rill 
that  shines  in  the  grass  and  thick  bushes,  shaded 
by  a  great  rock,  cooled  by  tangled  vines,  and 
sung  to  by  innumerable  birds,  is  blue  and  frothy 
with  soap,  and  will  scarcely  clear  itself  before 
night,  its  springs  are  so  low.  But  it  works 
vigorously,  like  any  small  thing  under  a  hard 
master,  with  never  a  day  of  rest,  and  has  great 
results. 

Here  the  path  leaves  the  green  coolness,  and 
toils  up  and  up  to  where  a  great  rose  garden 
suns  itself  on  a  broad  slope.  It  is  the  magnifi 
cent  Gloire  de  Dijon,  flowering  like  a  daisy  field, 
to  be  cut  first  for  the  Paris  flower  market,  and 
later  for  the  great  perfumeries  at  Grasse,  where 
its  petals  bring  fifty  francs  per  kilo. 

A  dingy  hut  with  irrigating  well  in  its  garden 
backs  the  path  almost  into  the  full  brook  that 
cherishes  a  lusty  growth  of  greenness  and  a 


60 

horde  of  mosquitoes.  By  the  well  sits  a  super 
annuated  grandfather,  sheltered  under  a  clay- 
colored  umbrella.  He  may  be  fifty  years  old, 
and  has  nothing  to  do  but  enjoy  just  living  and 
basking  in  sunshine. 

He  does  not  resent  the  path's  intrusion,  but 
it  hurries  past  his  artichokes  and  brown  beans 
and  lettuces  like  a  silent  apology,  swings  down 
a  sandy  stretch  to  the  butterfly  meadow,  and 
runs  on  the  very  tip  of  the  bank  above  the 
stream,  which  here  settles  into  another  pool, 
inviting  women  from  the  five-windowed  house 
under  the  olives,  who  bring  to  it,  like  Egyptian 
princesses,  head-loads  of  things  to  be  pounded 
on  the  rocks  and  scrubbed  against  the  flat 
stones,  and  afterward  labored  up  with  into  the 
sunshine.  The  path  cannot  keep  its  balance 
down  the  steeps  where  they  carry  their  baskets, 
but  trots  along  contentedly  like  a  little  dog 
with  no  purpose  ahead;  passes  here  a  window- 
less  hut — for  taxes  are  high  in  France;  there  a 
terraced  garden;  beyond,  a  grape  vineyard 
severely  pruned. 

Above  all  stand  the  Mountains  of  the  Moors, 
with  ruins  of  the  old,  old  castle  and  walls  as 
old  that  once  shut  it  in,  but  break  off  now 


A    FOOTPATH    IN    PROVENCE  61 

that  their  watch  and  ward  are  past  to  over 
look  the  valleys  and  ponder  on  the  ways  of  the 
ephemeral  creature,  man. 

Real  grass  and  shrubs  creep  to  the  foot  of 
the  towers  ;  vines  cling  about  them ;  cedar,  olive, 
fig,  and  mulberry  trees  slant  below  with  grip 
ping  roots,  to  more  terraces  and  one  little 
deserted  hut  that  the  wild  roses  have  adopted. 
Its  blackened  chimney  is  underfoot,  with  small 
respect  from  the  conscienceless  footpath;  and 
as  you  look  down  on  the  closed  door  barred 
only  by  clinging  vines  you  wonder  what  life 
passed  under  the  silent  roof  and  how. 

On  goes  the  clue,  and  you  follow  in  curves 
and  sharp  zigzags ; — flowers  underfoot  and 
overhead;  blue  things  and  white  things  and 
purple  and  lavender  things  and  yellow  and 
orange  and  deep  red  things,  and  everywhere, 
everywhere,  the  splendor  of  the  scarlet  poppy, 
as  if  heaven  sent  it  down  broadcast  with  the 
sunshine,  among  artichokes  and  beans  with 
their  gray-green  leaves  and  purple  noses. 
Here  are  green  hyacinths  past  blooming,  vio 
lets  with  great  shield  leaves,  cedars  alone  and 
in  groups,  and  over  all  white  and  yellow  butter 
flies,  and  birds  quivering  with  song. 


62 

Still  below  and  beyond,  at  one  corner  of  an 
endwise  hut,  a  woman  with  red  kerchief  and 
yellow-bordered  skirt,  pushing  a  loaded  wheel 
barrow;  and  in  the  distance  a  donkey  creak 
ing  like  a  pump.  Underfoot  a  sloping  roof 
three  parts  hidden  in  a  eucalyptus  grove  with 
only  a  door  to  its  name  but  with  the  sound  of 
the  brook  always  in  its  ears.  When  the  mistral 
blows  softly  here,  coming  from  far  away,  it  is 
like  wind  in  the  rigging  at  sea. 

Below,  but  out  of  sight,  lie  the  Gardens  of 
the  Hesperides.  Far  off,  the  bark  of  a  dog 
guarding  both  sheep  and  goats — not  separated 
as  in  Scripture,  but  shepherded  together;  and 
breaking  in  upon  the  remoteness  the  rattle  of 
a  donkey  cart  on  the  white  Toulon  road. 

It  might  be  the  cart  of  the  deformed  beggar, 
the  great  broad-shouldered,  sun-black  creature 
with  long  oily  hair  curling  at  the  ends,  who  in 
tones  in  the  voice  of  a  priest  at  every  garden 
gate  something  that  goes  sounding  on  and  on 
like  a  litany:  "We  have  erred  and  strayed  from 
thy  ways  like  lost  sheep,  like  lost  sheep,  like  lost 
sheep."  He  is  an  uncanny  sight,  and  the  beg 
gar  whine  hardens  our  heart  like  Pharaoh's. 
But  a  little  yellow-haired  urchin — his,  per- 


A    FOOTPATH    IN    PROVENCE  63 

haps — plays  without  fear  in  the  unoccupied 
corner  of  the  cart,  and  for  its  sake  and  senti 
ment's,  daily  sous  encourage  the  beggar  in  the 
sin  of  existence. 

Now  the  path  halts  a  bit  and  sits  down  to 
rest  among  the  crooked  olive  trees  that  no  man 
thinks  it  worth  his  while  to  straighten,  gets  up 
again  and  tiptoes  mysteriously  to  the  knobby 
mulberries  that  are  the  most  deformed  of  tree- 
creatures  before  their  time  of  leafage.  If  only 
Mother  Nature  would  as  kindly  cover  her 
human  children  in  this  sunny  spot  where  de 
formity  is  cultivated  like  a  reliable  crop  for  the 
revenue  it  brings ! 

Over  sharp  stones  the  path  lags  tiredly  up 
and  up  again  among  endless  figs  and  olives  and 
almonds,  wild  poppies,  borage  and  myrtle,  the 
yellow-green  of  the  euphorbia  and  the  pure  yel 
low  of  the  marigold  and  the  tiny  imitation 
dandelion,  to  the  House  of  the  Sun  Dial — a  real 
house  with  two  doors,  with  windows,  with  a 
gable  even;  and  on  the  front  it  turns  to  the 
street  a  rude  dial  whose  gnomon  tells  the  hour 
with  little  more  effort  than  one's  own  observa 
tion. 

And  here  the  path  grows  bewildered  with  so 


64 

much  in  prospect,  stumbles  over  gnarled  roots, 
slips  over  a  shiny  stretch  of  flat  stone,  and — 
like  the  animals  in  Leigh  Hunt's  "Tale  of  the 
Pig  Driver" — "runs  up  all  manner  of  streets." 
Unlike  them,  however,  it  comes  back  of  its  own 
accord  to  pause  awhile  at  the  top  of  its  little 
world,  to  sit  on  the  warm,  slantwise  rocks,  and 
look  about  it.  Down  below  in  the  cool,  deep 
valley  waters  run  and  trees  reach  up  to  the  sun, 
and  the  sound  of  a  far-off  tinkling  bell  is  like 
falling  water. 

There  is  a  stir  of  human  life  too.  Women 
must  be  always  washing  in  this  land  (where  no 
native  is  ever  clean).  The  sight  of  a  rill  or  the 
glisten  of  water  in  a  peaceful  pool  inspires 
them.  Boys  are  flying  kites,  holding  together 
their  heirloom  shirts  and  trousers  with  one 
hand  and  guiding  the  distracted  kites  with  the 
other.  A  queue  of  children,  tapering  down  to 
babes,  rolls  and  unrolls  behind  each  happy 
owner  of  a  thing  of  shreds  and  patches,  tum 
bling  over  each  other  with  gleeful  shrieks  when 
the  kite  sails  aloft  like  a  broken-winged  bird, 
sad  and  sympathetic  when  it  drops  among 
branches  of  tall  trees  or  flutters  hopelessly  in 
the  briers.  Black- winged  white  swallows  soar 


A    FOOTPATH    IN    PROVENCE  65 

above  and  among  the  kites,  and  butterflies  sit 
musing  below  on  every  thistle. 

Many  footways  start  out  here,  leaving  the 
old  castle  on  the  summit,  and  searching  with  a 
purpose  for  terraces,  gardens,  and  the  habita 
tions  of  man.  From  below  come  small,  homey 
sounds  of  human  life — the  careless  song  of  a 
young  girl,  the  barking  of  a  dog,  the  click  of  a 
slow  mattock,  the  creaking  of  a  leisurely  bar 
row.  To  the  west,  above  a  cluster  of  red  roofs 
that  fill  a  distant  gap  between  two  black  hills, 
shines  the  sea. 

But  playtime  is  over.  The  business  of  life 
is  serious,  and  no  longer  countenances  delay. 
One  look  at  crumbling  Clos  St.  Bernard  on  the 
hillside  below  the  castle  and  its  walls,  where  tall 
oaks  grow  above  the  ruins,  and  our  little  foot 
path  leans  back  and  runs  and  runs  and  runs 
over  the  slippery  stones  that  slant  to  the  valley, 
till  it  pulls  itself  up  to  round  the  corner,  and 
there  finds  the  other  path — that  of  the  flock  of 
sheep  and  bandit  shepherd — and  together  they 
jog  decorously  down  the  heights  to  the  dingy 
old  town. 


NOVEMBER  BY  THE  NORTH  SEA 

(A  FRAGMENT) 

iF  only  I  could  tell  of  our  trips  to  Leyden  and 
Delft — of  the  pink  and  green  and  yellow  toy 
houses  beguiling  the  way  with  their  toy  gar 
dens,  where  childish  threads  of  canals  fancy 
themselves  footpaths  and  go  sauntering  among 
the  nasturtiums  and  roses,  and  drawbridges 
are  a  mediaeval  dream  in  small,  shutting  out 
nothing  from  next-to-no thing,  but  just  en 
chanting.  And  all  along  the  way  vivid  green 
canals,  and  others  spread  with  a  red  growth 
just  as  vivid;  and  clear  ones  with  houses  up 
side  down  and  blue  sky  at  the  bottom,  and 
white  ducks  stepping  in,  stately,  one  by  one  to 
spoil  the  pretty  picture  with  their  own. 

We  delight  in  this  country,  with  its  slim 
spirits  of  trees  against  the  china-blue  sky;  its 
infinitesimal  gardens  crowding  to  the  veriest 
edges  of  canals  and  overfull  of  chrysanthe 
mums,  dahlias,  marigolds,  geraniums,  and  roses 
ready  to  fall  in ;  ivy  running  all  over  Mary  Ar- 
den  cottages  even  to  the  chimneys;  more  gar- 


NOVEMBER  BY  THE  NORTH  SEA       67 

dens  with  dewy,  full-blown  cabbages  in  royal 
purple,  like  queens  and  kings  on  parade ;  wind 
mills  like  ghostly  clowns  turning  great  hand 
springs  against  the  far-off  blue,  across  polders 
gray  and  misty,  with  great  spaces  of  light 
trembling  down  from  the  stars  and  not  yet  a9 
there! 

And  such  human  beings !  A  real  Aunt  Jane 
stepping  out  of  an  unseen  planet,  with  high 
crimson  plumes  waving  above  a  scrap  of  green 
velvet  on  wires,  poised  and  actually  tied  under 
the  chin.  And  under  all  this  the  loveliest  old- 
lace  cap  with  gold  frontlet  and  long  pendant 
pins!  And  just  behind  her  a  young  creature 
with  strong  boots  and  a  short  blue  skirt,  and 
cheeks  like  Baldwin  apples,  in  a  cap  of  exquis 
ite  pillow-lace  handed  down  for  generations 
probably,  falling  to  the  shoulders,  and  a  yellow 
straw  bonnet — bright  yellow,  on  my  honor — 
perched  above  it,  with  flying  streamers  like  an 
oriflamme — a  thing  to  make  the  gods  weep. 

A  bare  little  steamer  lay  asleep  one  day  on 
the  Zuider  Zee  waiting  for  cargo,  its  captain 
and  "conductor"  and  engineer  laying  their 
heads  visibly  together  in  the  little  glass  house 
where  most  of  their  day  is  spent.  Two  young 


68 

Dutch  maidens  with  large  baskets  seemed  to  be 
our  only  fellow-travelers.  The  three  men  in 
the  glass  house  with  infinite  leisure  concen 
trated  their  English  and  brought  the  common 
stock  to  me,  spelling  out  zeemeouws  when  I 
asked  the  Dutch  name  of  the  birds  darting  and 
complaining  over  our  heads.  Why  do  we  call 
them  gulls?  Pure  poverty  of  language?  But 
I  forgot  and  asked  far  less  simple  questions, 
which  puzzled  them  and  sent  them  back  under 
cover  for  consultation. 

Near  Zaandam  a  lovely  old  woman  appeared 
in  a  perked-up  straw  hat  absolutely  bare,  no 
band  even,  an  indescribable  object  with  high, 
small  crown  and  brim  curved  to  its  top — just 
a  blocked-out  Thing  "without  purpose  or  fore- 
ordination." 

It  was  just  here  that  the  windmills  went  mad, 
thirty-two  prancing  at  a  time  in  more  ways 
than  seemed  reasonable  before  our  very  eyes, 
one  at  the  end  of  the  canal  like  a  gray  seer  wav 
ing  us  off.  Such  great  arms  painted  in  lines 
of  black  and  white  and  bright  blue,  with  sails 
of  red  and  yellow,  red  and  green,  brown,  or 
ange  and  black,  all  blown  about  by  the  breath 
of  some  invisible  spirit,  for  the  balmy  air  had 


NOVEMBER  BY  THE  NOETH  SEA       69 

no  edge  even,  no  pushing  quality.  And  still 
they  fulfilled  their  destiny,  and  ground  and 
ground.  What  a  pity  that  we  can't  be  orna 
mental  as  we  grind! 

We  sailed  from  canal  to  meer,  from  meer  to 
canal,  with  Boer  houses  below  us  in  clumps  of 
trees,  individual  canals  leading  to  their  doors ; 
red  roofs,  crystal-clear  windows,  and  flowers  in 
them  all.  No  wonder  men  were  tulip-mad  in 
this  land!  Great  reeds,  twice  a  man's  height, 
bowed  on  the  banks  as  we  passed,  with  the 
sound  of  wind  in  a  pine  forest.  And  how  beau 
tiful  they  were  in  their  russet  browns !  Blan 
keted  cows  and  horses,  pigs  and  sheep,  fed  on 
the  great  soft  polders,  with  sails  breaking  in 
here  and  there  like  spirits  of  ships  aground. 

At  last  we  reached  Alkmaar.  The  captain, 
the  conductor,  and  the  engineer  in  concert 
deputed  a  man  from  below  to  pilot  us ;  and  we 
set  off,  in  that  speechless  fashion  that  makes 
one  furious  with  the  Babel  builders,  past  Dutch 
houses  so  little  and  queer  and  many-colored 
that  I  longed  to  bring  one  home  for  a  doll- 
house.  They  all  had  step-gables  (corbie- 
steps),  and  Dutch  babies  ran  about  in  funny 
caps,  and  all  the  shop  windows  were  full  of 


70 

gingerbread  men;  so  I  knew  it  was  just  a  fairy- 
book,  and  somebody  had  set  me  in  it  unbe 
knownst. 

When  at  last  we  came  in  sight  of  the  Weigh 
House,  remarkably  like  the  Hoorn  picture,  I 
dismissed  our  pilot  with  a  silver  blessing;  and 
we  wandered  among  millions  of  barrows  and 
mountains  of  cheeses,  from  grapefruit  size  to 
red  and  yellow  globes  as  big  as  a  man's  head. 
Men  in  blue  blouses — bright,  and  faded,  and 
patched,  but  always  blue — with  Alpine  hats  of 
yellow,  red  or  green,  caught  up  the  piled  bar 
rows  and  trotted  with  them  to  the  Weigh 
House,  unless  they  fell  out  by  the  way  and  came 
to  blows,  which  occasionally  happened,  when 
the  yellow  balls  rolled  off  dangerously  near  the 
canal  amid  the  jeers  of  bystanders — the  one 
understandable  tongue.  All  along  the  banks  of 
the  canal  stood  gigs  of  the  centuries,  yellow  and 
high-backed,  with  caleche  front  like  our  great- 
grandmothers'  sunbonnets,  in  which  the  cheese 
had  come  to  market ;  and  men  were  lading  canal 
boats  after  the  weighing,  tossing  two  at  a  time 
from  barrow  to  boat  where  the  catchers  never 
once  missed. 

A  woman  with  unlimited  good  will  silently 


NOVEMBER  BY  THE  NORTH  SEA       71 

plucked  me  by  the  sleeve  and  drew  me  away 
from  a  moving  drawbridge,  pointing  to  the 
Weigh  House  steeple  where  on  the  stroke  of  the 
hour  something  came  out  and  did  something. 
But  it  was  high  up,  the  sun  was  in  my  eyes,  and 
I  knew  all  about  cuckoo  clocks  and  Berne  bears. 
Still  I  thanked  her  kindly,  for  she  had  the 
proper  spirit  and  was  quite  above  pourboires. 

We  came  home  quite  commonplacely  by 
train.  One  sun-bright  window  cheered  me  out 
of  the  dark  as  we  drove  home.  A  broad,  fair 
vrouw,  in  lace  cap  and  golden  helmet,  was 
pouring  tea  from  a  sparkling  heirloom  that 
might  have  come  all  the  way  down  from  Willem 
the  Silent.  Truly,  as  I  looked  up  to  that  shin 
ing  second  floor,  I  thought  her  out  of  doors  till 
I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  window  frame. 

All  that  night  I  dreamed  of  windmills  small 
and  great  setting  out  to  sea,  with  a  strong  fol 
lowing  wind. 


ACROSS  THE  CENTURIES 

IT  was  on  a  gentle  sea  that  we  sailed  from 
Gibraltar  to  Tangier.  But  it  was  midwinter, 
and  the  passage  not  well  spoken  of  by  recent 
travelers. 

We  had  risen  by  starlight,  too  early  for  cabs 
to  be  in  demand,  and  followed  our  luggage- 
bearers  as  in  a  dream  to  the  quay,  meeting  a 
dense  throng  of  Spaniards  coming  in  for  work 
from  the  mainland. 

From  a  tangle  of  boats  floating  in  the  harbor 
our  guide  chose  for  us,  and  before  we  reached 
the  side  of  the  Spanish  steamer  we  saw  the 
dawn  come  up  out  of  the  sea  and  flush  the  edges 
of  England's  stronghold.  As  we  crept  close  to 
the  shore  green  hills  rolled  endwise  toward  us 
and  lost  themselves  in  the  Straits,  most  sym 
metrically  rounded  and  smoothed,  with  little 
"Christmas  trees"  marking  owners'  boundaries 
far  up  the  slope. 

The  day  grew  too  gray  for  beautiful  effects ; 
gray  sea,  gray  sky,  with  grim  Pillars  of  Her 
cules  behind  us,  and  white  Tarifa  gleaming 


ACROSS    THE    CENTURIES  73 

ahead  like  a  dream.  But  as  we  passed  slowly 
by  it  dropped  back  against  its  hills,  spread  out 
its  low  gray  ruins  and  became  only  a  line,  irreg 
ular  and  broken  but  no  longer  picturesque. 
Then  our  course  changed  suddenly  and  Tangier 
came  out  like  a  magic  picture  from  its  rough 
setting.  We  were  sailing  backward  across  the 
centuries  on  our  own  ocean. 

Above  the  steep  green  approach  beyond  the 
mole  rose  tower  and  minaret  and  the  dull  blues 
and  reds  that  gave  bits  of  color  to  the  torrent 
of  gray- white  that  flowed  down  into  the  ravine, 
spread  out  and  rose  again  to  the  ascent,  then 
fell  slowly  away,  a  spent  stream,  to  the  sands 
that  round  the  Bay  of  Tangier. 

A  clamorous  throng  filled  the  great  quay — a 
leaf  torn  out  of  the  Bible.  Sturdy  Andrews 
and  Simon  Peters  tucked  up  their  brown  ja- 
bousies  and  plunged  into  the  water  to  bring 
their  loads  of  fish  ashore.  John-the-Baptists 
with  sad,  beautiful  eyes  were  shoved  aside  that 
Judas  and  Barabbas  might  seize  the  bags  and 
rugs  and  weariful  belongings  of  the  travelers, 
wrangling  over  their  share  and  snatching  at 
that  of  others  in  a  tongue  as  empty  of  meaning 
for  us  as  ours  for  them. 


74  MADDALENA'S  DAY 

A  city  with  no  sound  of  wheels,  only  the 
patter  of  bare  feet,  of  sandaled  feet,  and  the 
tiny  hoofs  of  donkeys.  Along  the  endless  quay 
to  the  old  wall  we  followed  our  porters,  through 
its  dingy  gate  and  dingier  footway,  over  hard, 
jagged  paving  stones  and  muddy  rills,  past 
wells  like  that  of  Sychar,  where  Arabs  in  rags 
were  filling  water  jars  and  goatskin  bottles 
that  lay  in  the  mud  beside  them,  dipping  them 
slowly,  and  dripping  away  with  them,  past 
overloaded  donkeys  and  stately  Moors  and  Nu 
bians  and  tall  Soudanese  to  a  white  walled  villa 
at  last,  overlooking  the  sea  and  the  Riffl  Moun 
tains  at  the  right. 

Along  the  sands  twenty  feet  below  our  court 
yard  and  Moorish  arbor  paced  an  endless  pro 
cession  of  donkeys — donkeys  in  gray,  donkeys 
in  brown,  donkeys  in  indescribable  sunbaked- 
clay  color.  Drivers  ran  beside  them,  bare 
legged  boys  and  men  with  red  fez  and  white 
turban  and  rags  most  picturesque  through 
which  the  sweet  air  of  Tangier  is  always  blow 
ing.  Camels  paced  by  on  their  slow  way  to  the 
marketplace,  and  always  donkeys  and  more 
donkeys.  A  few  saddle  horses  with  English 
riders  trotted  along  the  verge  of  the  sand, 


ACROSS    THE    CENTURIES  75 

many  just  inside  the  slow  line  of  the  creeping 
tide. 

Two  Arabs  in  white  burnouses  trained  beau 
tiful  ponies  that  plunged  head  downward,  mak 
ing  short  runs  and  long  sweeps  around  their 
masters,  rearing,  backing,  racing  like  colts  let 
loose.  Two  dervishes  with  wild  shouts  whirled 
and  embraced,  and  still  the  donkeys  paced  by. 
But  when  the  day's  work  was  done  and  the 
heavy  panniers  emptied,  beasts  and  men  by 
the  score  rushed  out  to  meet  the  waves;  the 
donkeys  thrusting  their  noses  deep  in  as  if  tak 
ing  great  breaths  of  the  sea,  then  standing  to 
be  beaten  upon  and  washed — is  not  the  sea 
made  on  purpose? — while  the  men  scrubbed 
their  own  legs  and  feet  that  had  run  ceaselessly 
all  day. 

With  the  night  the  great  Riffl  Mountains 
shone  with  their  own  stars;  little  hidden  clay 
huts  and  thatched  coverings  up  and  up  among 
the  olives  and  oranges  and  live  oaks,  each  with 
its  own  firefly  spark.  Miles  and  miles  up 
weary,  rough  paths  go  donkey  and  man  from 
the  marketplace.  And  not  only  these  but 
women  and  children ;  old,  old  women  barefooted, 
with  legs  bound  in  coarse  canvas,  who  have  car- 


76 

ried  eucalyptus  cuttings  on  their  heads  since 
early  morning,  and  are  tramping  back  to  what 
ever  they  may  call  home. 

And  with  them  are  silent  young  women  with 
bare  legs  and  covered  faces;  and  beautiful 
children  with  bright  eyes  and  flesh  the  color  of 
new  walnut,  rich  with  sun,  let  alone  to  ripen 
into  old  leather;  hoary  brigands  riding  loftily; 
and  beggars  more  picturesque  than  Lazarus, 
and  more  gifted  at  asking  alms. 

The  soft,  sweet  air  blows  over  them  all  alike, 
Heaven's  own  compensation,  and  they  live  in 
glorious  defiance  of  germs  that  destroy  dainty 
folk.  Life  is  life,  and  why  should  they  consider 
the  worm? 

It  is  only  in  the  holes  and  crevices  of  cities 
that  we  wonder  if  God  made  them.  Here  they 
are  part  and  parcel  of  the  landscape — awful 
mountains,  clay  wadies,  barren  moors,  thatched 
huts,  flocks  of  sheep  and  goats,  heather,  pal 
metto,  olive  and  cistus.  The  rain  washes  them, 
the  sun  dries  them — at  last  to  mummies,  it  is 
true ;  but  this  is  the  present. 

And  is  there  not  every  week  their  journey  to 
Paradise — the  Socco  di  Barra — where  they 
fight  their  way  among  the  indescribable  wares 


ACROSS    THE    CENTURIES  77 

that  lie  on  narrow  sidewalk  and  muddy  street; 
where  bread  is  the  bush  at  every  vender's  door, 
the  most  abused  staple  of  food  in  all  their 
world?  In  the  little  paved  streets,  where  a  line 
of  muddy  water  is  always  running  to  add  need 
less  emphasis  to  the  odors,  fish  is  laid  out  on 
mats  among  which  the  tiny  donkey  hoofs  pick 
their  way;  leopard-like  fish  with  broad  black 
spots ;  fish  half  eel,  half  beast.  Strings  of 
bright  red  peppers  and  duller  tomatoes  and 
long  rosaries  of  onions  deck  the  way. 

Great  bowls  of  yellow  beans  lean  toward  the 
passer;  sausages  swing  before  his  face;  bread 
is  nailed  up,  dangled  from  strings,  laid  on  the 
edge  of  the  walk.  Cakes  and  sweets  tempt  the 
flies  always  ready  to  take  what  is  set  before 
them.  Great  joints  of  meat  hang  among  the 
loaves  and  fishes ;  artichokes  and  the  nameless 
green  herbs  that  are  served  cannily  at  table 
make  a  green  spot  in  the  booths  all  along  the 
way  and  vie  with  oranges  and  tangerines, 
lemons,  pears  and  apples,  even  pumpkins  that 
look  ludicrously  homesick,  like  country  cousins 
at  a  city  bazaar. 

Ho,  for  the  pumpkin  pie  of  old  New  Eng 
land!  And  oh,  for  the  bread  across  seas! 


78  MADDALENA'S  DAY 

Bread  made  by  washen  hands  and  covered  with 
linen  clean  and  white.  Bread  sweet  and  tender 
and  nourishing,  a  joy  to  the  eyes  and  to  the 
imagination.  Not  made  in  stony  rings  and 
hung  in  every  doorway  to  be  pushed  aside  like 
a  portiere;  laid  on  the  street,  strung  on  the 
shafts  of  carts,  piled  on  burnous  sleeves  that 
never  knew  the  taste  of  soap  or  smelled  the 
sweetness  of  water.  "He  asked  for  bread  and 
they  gave  him  a  stone."  It  need  be  no  reproach 
to  the  giver  here. 

Up  and  on  we  go,  among  donkeys  and  men 
and  what  are  called  women  and  children.  With 
scarce  room  for  a  foot  one  balances  on  a  stone 
above  the  mud  and  waits  for  the  crowd  to  melt 
an  inch  as  it  grazes  trays  of  fruit,  boards  of 
sticky  sweets,  lentils,  artichokes  and  much- 
enduring  bread.  Here  an  old  man  is  stirring 
a  ragout  over  a  brazier  in  an  unwashed  jar. 
Live  fowls  look  out  with  unconcern  from  their 
owners'  laps,  or  are  lifted  by  the  wings  like  but 
terflies  with  cherubic  effect,  though  they  look 
more  foolish  than  when  swung  head  downward 
and  bound  by  the  heels  with  others,  to  be 
dragged  through  the  masses, — plumage  turned 


ACROSS    THE    CENTURIES  79 

upside  down,  till  they  must  look  forward  with 
interest  to  the  last  pang. 

Dirty,  heavenly  Tangier!  One  looks  across 
seas  with  desire  for  its  holes  and  caves,  its 
tumult  of  donkeys  and  men  that  melt  away  like 
motes  in  the  air,  like  fish  in  the  sea,  when  you 
think  them  an  impassable  barrier.  Now  and 
then  donkey  bunts  donkey  or  child,  priest,  Nu 
bian  or  Soudanese ;  but  there  is  no  friction.  It 
is  oil  with  oil,  not  oil  with  water,  and  they  blend 
like  primary  colors. 

At  the  great  court  of  justice  where  the  judge 
sits  in  the  gate,  one  looks  for  blows  to  follow  the 
torrent  of  shouted  words  over  an  unwise  trans 
action.  The  accused  has  children  and  no  bread 
and  no  money  he  swears  again  and  again.  And 
the  judge — it  may  be  the  unjust  judge — in  his 
spotless  white  robe  speaks,  the  offender  pays 
his  dues,  and  the  peace  that  was  disturbed  re 
turns  again. 

At  the  harem  a  tall  Nubian  slave  escorts  you 
to  the  presence  of  the  favorite  who  sits  with  her 
women  rolling  and  patting  small  cakes.  Her 
eyes  are  beautiful,  but  the  tall,  stately  Nubian 
is  much  more  impressive;  most  lightly  clad, 
with  bare  feet  and  legs,  and  a  great  gold  hoop 


80 

in  one  ear.  Her  shapely  brown  feet  make  no 
sound  on  the  tiled  floors  where  she  goes  and 
comes  like  a  thinking  shadow.  An  atmosphere 
of  stagnant  quiet  fills  the  place.  The  outside 
air  with  its  endless  odor  of  donkey  is  easier  to 
breathe. 

A  holy  man — a  young  man — passes,  in  blue 
silk  burnous.  "He  is  on  his  way  to  Mecca,"  the 
guide  says.  "Many  go  there." 

Steep  and  difficult  as  the  pathway  of  the 
gods  is  the  cobbled  way  to  the  lower  town 
which  we  descend  sidewise  and  crippled,  cling 
ing  to  each  other,  slipping  and  quailing  before 
the  next  impossible  step. 

Far  out  in  the  deep  blue  of  the  harbor  lies 
the  steamer  from  Cadiz,  and  bright-hued  Moors 
are  rowing  seasick  passengers  out  to  it.  The 
waves  buffet  and  the  boat  stands  on  end,  but 
falls  over  to  the  next  ridge,  bow  up,  then  stern 
up ;  and  with  shouts  and  waving  arms  the  ship's 
side  is  reached  at  last  and  the  perilous  steps 
climbed. 

We  fancy  them  sorry — these  touring  folk — 
to  go  back  to  modern  times.  When  they  are 
tossing  across  to  Gibraltar  they  will  remember 
the  songs  of  Fez  and  Tetuan  rising  and  falling 


ACROSS    THE    CENTURIES  81 

with  the  chords  of  strange  instruments;  the 
turbaned  men  wailing  dolorous  laments  like 
funeral  chants ;  the  Moorish  arches  overhead 
in  the  dim,  painted  room;  the  odor  of  strong 
coffee  filling  the  close  air ;  the  sprawling  groups 
playing  for  drinks  with  cards,  like  nothing  this 
side  of  the  centuries.  And  if  they  have  had  one 
taste  of  the  lotus  in  far  Tangier  it  may  be  they 
will  think  backward  with  the  sigh — "Lochaber 
no  more!" 


ON  DONKEY-BACK  TO  CAPE  SPARTEL 

1  HE  morning  of  December  twelfth  broke 
slowly.  Gray  clouds  hung  over  the  Riffl  Moun 
tain-range  to  the  east,  and  there  were  grave 
doubts  as  to  the  wisdom  of  attempting  the  all- 
day  trip.  But  Douk  AH  was  already  at  the 
door  with  his  men  and  their  beasts,  and  the 
broad  courtyard  was  overflowing  with  impor 
tance. 

Douk  Ali,  tall,  handsome,  and  serene,  in  blue 
burnous,  golf  stockings  and  tan  shoes,  moved 
here  and  there  suggesting  a  tighter  strap  or  a 
shifted  saddle,  and  his  Moors  worked  as  pleased 
them.  Who  were  they  to  ascribe  value  to  a 
fragment  of  time  which  is  all  in  Allah's  hands? 

We  were  seven,  with  five  men:  Mohamed 
Tabgi;  Abderkader;  Hadj  Mohd  Millood;  El 
Kraa ;  Mohamed  Gibeloo ;  and  Douk  Ali,  leader 
and  guide.  Awaiting  our  pleasure  were  two 
high,  dark  donkeys  of  uniform  color,  with 
English  saddles ;  one  lesser  beast  patched  like 
an  old  burnous;  three  like  hair  trunks  in  the 
fourth  generation ;  and  a  low,  gray  creature 
with  baby  face  and  sleepy  eyes  under  drooping 


ON    DONKEY-BACK    TO     CAPE    SPARTEL  83 

lids,  who  backed  into  his  kind  and  thrust  an 
innocent  nose  into  their  dark  councils  as  they 
shifted  and  slid  like  iron  filings  under  a  magnet. 

It  was  the  little  gray  that  fell  to  my  share 
and  bumped  against  his  fellows  when  I  was 
mounted  on  the  Spanish  saddle  whose  footboard 
would  swing  anywhere  but  underfoot.  Time 
went  noiselessly  on,  and  almost  as  noiselessly 
the  little  gray  donkey  vibrated  like  an  ill-set 
pendulum  in  among  his  brother-donkeys  and 
master-men,  who  shouldered  and  elbowed  him 
out  of  their  way. 

Thus  far  it  was  simple  enough  to  one  unused 
to  any  kind  of  saddle  and  who  had  doubted  the 
possibility  of  staying  on  at  all.  The  test  would 
come  when  we  dropped  suddenly  down  the  steep, 
cobbled  gutter-way  leading  to  the  sands  where 
we  had  watched  the  heads  of  riders  disappear 
ing  day  by  day.  But  the  gray  donkey  paced 
it  soberly,  and  the  first  stage  was  safely  past. 

Douk  Ali  headed  the  long  procession,  sitting 
in  sidewise  dignity  like  an  Old  Testament 
worthy,  on  a  little  creature  that  also  carried 
the  great  panniers  with  our  luncheon.  As  we 
ambled  across  the  muddy  streams  from  the 
great  well  where  Arabs  filled  goatskin  bottles 


84 

or  held  them  dripping  on  their  dingy  shoulders, 
children  and  chickens  and  pigs  made  way  for 
us,  as  did  the  throng  of  Soudanese,  Nubians, 
Moors  and  beggars  on  the  steep  road  to  the 
town.  Here  we  were  lost  in  the  indescribable 
torrent  that  rises  and  swells,  but  seldom  falls 
away  from  the  roughly  cobbled,  mountainous 
streets.  The  gray  donkey's  nose  fitted  into  any 
crevice,  and  where  the  crowd  rose  like  the  comb 
of  a  breaker  his  owner  pushed  him  from  behind. 

Two  of  our  party  rode  bareheaded,  hoping 
to  find  broad  sun  hats  in  the  Socco  di  Barra. 
It  was  market  day,  and  though  everything  else 
was  on  sale  there  were  no  hats.  But  the  day 
was  gray,  the  December  air  soft,  and  any  head 
covering  superfluous. 

In  dark  crevices  and  rifts  of  the  city  wall  the 
young  Faithful  recited  the  Koran  in  singsong 
to  an  old,  old  man  who  had  no  need  of  the  book. 

We  traced  our  way  up  a  long,  narrow,  beau 
tifully  shaded  lane,  soon  came  to  our  mountain 
road,  and  went  up  and  up  and  up  from  bad  to 
worse.  Here  and  there  a  traveler  passed  us, 
but  for  the  most  part  we  had  the  country  to 
ourselves.  On  the  few  level  stretches  the  beasts 
were  prodded  and  slapped,  urged  on  by  hand 


ON    DONKEY-BACK    TO    CAPE    SPARTEL          85 

and  stick.  Oh,  the  horror  of  the  donkey's  trot ! 
His  amble  is  the  very  rocking-chair  of  mo 
tion — a  chair  with  short  rockers ;  but  his  trot 
is  of  the  Inquisition.  It  not  only  jellies  the 
brain  but  loosens  the  very  bones  from  their 
sockets  as  the  feet  rattle  like  castanets  on  the 
dangling  stirrup-board. 

As  we  climbed  height  after  height  only  to 
reach  a  still  higher,  Tangier  faded  slowly  in  the 
gray  air  that  shut  off  so  much  we  wished  to  see. 
Heather  and  cacti  grew  all  along  our  way,  with 
low,  shrubby  eucalyptus  in  demand  for  fire 
wood.  Presently  we  came  across  two  old  women 
and  a  boy  cutting  the  stalks  and  binding  them 
into  immense  back  loads  for  the  market.  The 
women  were  like  moving  mummies  burned  to  a 
faded  black,  wrinkled  and  wizened,  with  coars 
est  garments  reaching  to  the  knees  and  open  at 
the  throat,  and  rough  sacking  tied  with  rope 
around  their  legs.  All  were  barefooted.  They 
looked  at  us  with  indifference ;  but  two  small 
girls  running  down  from  a  hut  high  up  on  our 
right  stopped  suddenly  and  flattered  us  with 
their  keen  interest. 

The  moorland  spread  all  about  us  with  its 
yellows,  browns  and  reds,  its  great  prickly 


86 

pears  like  hideous  beggars,  and  stunted  olives 
twisted  by  the  wind;  but  the  white  city  behind 
us  and  the  sight  of  miles  of  outlying  country 
were  cut  off  by  the  insistent  grayness  of  the 
day. 

Just  above  the  group  of  fagot  bearers  the 
real  weariness  of  the  trip  began.  Boulders  lay 
ahead  with  masses  of  broken  stone,  and  the  poor 
donkeys  picked  their  way  where  donkeys  before 
them  had  left  long  marks  of  sliding  hoofs. 
When  a  foot  of  level  was  reached  it  meant  no 
rest,  simply  pushing  on  to  the  next  steep,  each 
worse  than  the  last.  The  men  ran  alongside, 
one  hand  on  the  saddle  and  arrhaed  and 
prodded;  and  still  up  we  went  with  no  pros 
pect  of  reaching  the  top.  Tops  came  in  view, 
each  higher  and  steeper  than  the  one  just 
passed,  but  no  real  top  appeared. 

But  all  things  have  an  ultimate  end,  even  the 
mountain  pass  to  Cape  Spartel — that  innocent 
cape  like  a  pinprick  on  the  map  of  Africa 
toward  the  setting  sun — and  after  two  hours 
we  saw  a  bit  of  yellow  sand  miles  away,  and  the 
sea  below  rallying  around  it.  Great  trees  be 
neath  our  path  were  like  a  carpeting  of  moss ; 
and  for  the  first  time  we  caught  a  glimpse  of 


ON    DONKEY-BACK    TO     CAPE    SPARTEL          87 

the  white  lighthouse,  lonely  sentinel  above  a 
lonelier  sea. 

As  we  dropped  slowly  down  to  the  solid  road 
way  with  its  massive  retaining  wall  we  came 
suddenly  upon  two  women  with  mattocks  widen 
ing  the  road  on  the  mountain  side  at  the  left. 
Most  scantily  clad  and  bare-legged,  they  looked 
stolidly  indifferent  to  our  cavalcade  as  it  pat 
tered  by.  A  look  of  compassion  lighted  Douk 
Ali's  handsome,  impenetrable  face,  as  he  said, 
"Spanish  ladies  work  awful  hard." 

Out  of  the  loneliness  and  silence  towered  the 
lighthouse,  imposing  in  height  and  strength. 
Within  its  broad  courtyard  a  fountain  dripped, 
but  its  clear  water  had  a  brassy  taste.  Two  of 
the  unappeased  sight-seers  mounted  the  stairs 
after  registering  in  the  office  where  many  na 
tions  had  registered  before;  but  they  soon  re 
turned.  There  was  nothing  to  be  seen  but  a 
great  stretch  of  our  own  gray  ocean,  a  sun 
burnt  house  of  two  or  three  rooms,  a  stable,  and 
the  green  heights  we  were  too  familiar  with. 

The  wife  of  the  keeper  greeted  us  with 
courtesy ;  her  husband  rolled  out  a  round  table 
along  the  echoing  court.  This  our  men  spread 
with  clean  linen  and  the  contents  of  the  pan- 


88 

niers — partridge,  ham,  boiled  eggs,  rolls,  fresh 
butter,  cheese,  olives,  raisins,  oranges,  the 
luscious  dates  of  Tangier,  and  Valdepenas 
wine;  and  the  Spanish  woman  within  sent  out 
hot  thick  Turkish  coffee.  So  we  lunched  with 
great  content  under  the  lee  of  the  lighthouse  on 
the  twelfth  day  of  December,  while  two  hungry- 
eyed  dogs  watched  us  greedily,  snatched  the 
partridge  bones  and  bread  we  tried  to  appease 
them  with  and  were  always  at  attention  for 
more. 

The  luncheon  of  the  men  which  followed  ours 
was  a  brief  function.  There  was  a  quick  pack 
ing  of  the  panniers  and  grouping  of  the 
donkeys  whose  rest  had  been  shortened  by  a 
few  drops  of  threatening  rain.  It  was  impos 
sible  to  forget  the  awful  miles  before  us.  We 
had  stipulated  that  our  way  back  should  skirt 
the  mountain,  a  longer  road  but  easier.  Here 
the  men  rebelled  and  the  eldest  of  them  mounted 
his  charge  on  the  gray  donkey  and  ran  it  off  in 
the  direction  he  chose  to  take. 

Douk  Ali,  the  Faithful,  was  between  two  fires. 
We  were  his  guests ;  his  life  for  ours.  He  must 
keep  his  word  with  us,  but  the  men  were  five  to 
one,  and  their  speech  was  not  of  the  Koran. 


ON    DONKEY-BACK    TO    CAPE    SPARTEL          89 

The  gray  donkey  was  ordered  back,  and  his 
owner,  with  clenched  fist  shaken  toward  the  new 
way,  shouted,  "No  good,  no  good!"  We  held 
a  council  with  our  guide  who  confessed  that 
though  the  way  was  bad  as  possible  for  the  first 
mile,  infinitely  worse  than  the  other,  it  was 
much  better  for  the  rest  of  the  way.  "No 
good"  still  rumbled  and  echoed  on  the  quiet  air, 
and  we  could  not  gainsay  it.  So  we  left  the 
beasts  to  pick  their  way  among  rocks  that 
Deucalion  might  have  flung  behind  him — rocks 
that  would  have  peopled  his  world  with  mon 
sters.  With  a  reliable  guide's  hold  on  one  arm 
and  the  aid  of  his  quick  eye  to  see  and  choose 
possible  footholds,  we  went  on  inch  by  inch, 
reach  by  reach,  while  the  free  donkeys  dropped 
down  with  the  lightness  of  wings. 

At  last,  at  last,  we  were  on  the  yellow  sands 
with  a  green  tide  foaming  in  and  many  flooded 
inlets  to  cross — inlets  that  we  shuddered  at  as 
well  as  the  donkeys,  and  would  have  been  as 
glad  to  run  from.  The  men  whisked  off  their 
sandals,  holding  them  in  the  hand  that  grasped 
the  saddle,  and  every  donkey  was  persuaded 
according  to  his  nature  to  go  down  into  un 
known  deeps.  He  "had  to  be  reconciled." 


90 

A  scramble  up  again,  another  reach  of  sand, 
a  view  of  long  lines  of  splendid  breakers, 
another  inlet.  Sometimes  the  helpless  beasts 
resisted,  to  their  hurt,  but  the  floods  did  not 
drown  them,  and  in  time — oh,  such  time! — we 
came  to  the  desired  Caves  of  Hercules.  A 
lonely  life  it  must  have  been  if  he  wintered  in 
these  sand-bitten,  surf-beaten  caves,  high  and 
hoary,  ranged  by  twos  and  threes,  with  often  a 
strip  of  fine  white  sand  spread  before  the  en 
trance.  One  little  summer  cave  high  above  the 
rest  had  a  green  strip  of  lawn  before  its  door; 
and  wide  avenues  of  bleached  sand  separated 
others,  winding  upward  like  pathways  of  the 
greater  gods.  Here  but  for  the  sea  was  the 
silence  of  the  desert — the  grim  silence  of  centu 
ries  that  fuses  nations  and  makes  all  humanity 
of  all  ages  kindred. 

Again  we  mounted,  struggling  through  path 
less  sand  hills,  gaining  one  steep  after  another, 
with  the  roaring  ocean  behind  hurrying  us  on, 
until  at  last  table-land  was  reached.  Here 
grew  the  tall  Mediterranean  heather,  the  cactus 
and  eucalyptus  through  which  the  men  ran  and 
leapt,  their  sandals  full  of  wet  sand  flapping 


ON    DONKEY-BACK    TO    CAPE    SPARTEL          91 

at  every  step  but  never  falling  off.  And  still 
the  poor  beasts  were  slapped  and  prodded  on. 

Gorges  with  crumbling  edges  appeared,  and 
the  brown  legs  leaned  in  and  sturdy  arms  and 
shoulders  pushed  the  donkeys  on,  and  the  sand 
and  stones  rattled  down  as  they  passed. 

Then  came  the  wadies — horrible  creeks  with 
sticky  bottoms  or  muddy  runlets  through 
which  the  donkeys  had  to  be  persuaded  by 
means  indescribable.  Sometimes  they  utterly 
refused,  as  would  we  if  we  could,  and  ran  back, 
even  with  certainty  of  a  day  of  reckoning  at 
hand. 

It  was  then  that  the  gray  donkey  with  the 
guileless  face  began  to  sit  down.  I  say  "began" 
advisedly;  for  in  spite  of  cursings  and  whacks 
like  the  splitting  of  timber,  he  would  double  his 
little  legs  and  tiny  hoofs  under  him  and  brood 
like  a  marble  lamb  on  a  tombstone,  while  his 
rider,  snatched  off  by  the  maddened  guide, 
begged  for  his  life.  It  was  his  custom,  Douk 
AH  said,  after  a  conference  with  his  master. 
He  was  not  tired.  And  as  a  custom  it  was 
much  honored  in  the  observance.  His  rider 
soon  learned  the  signs  of  rebellion,  and  at  the 


92 

helpless,  extorted  cry,  "Oh,  he's  wagging  his 
head !"  Mohamed  smote  him  hip  and  thigh, 
and  with  awful  blows  on  the  nearest  cheek,  as 
if  he  had  been  an  ox  for  sacrifice;  and  tem 
porarily  the  gray  beast  changed  his  mind. 
But  if  Mohamed,  who  had  a  great  flow  of 
language,  happened  to  be  shouting  to  a  com 
rade  behind,  down  went  little  gray  with  human 
persistence  and  cherubim  placidity.  His  soft 
brown  eyes  half  veiled  by  their  drooping  lids 
expressed  undaunted  trust  in  his  religion.  If 
he  must  perish  it  was  the  will  of  Allah.  Mean 
while  he  would  rest  and  shake  off  the  infidel 
weight  that  bruised  both  flesh  and  spirit. 

The  sun  began  to  withdraw  behind  the  moun 
tains  and  a  grayer  light  filled  all  the  valleys 
and  gorges.  High  up  among  the  oaks  and 
olives  thatched  huts  rested  in  peaceful  security 
and  toward  these  the  flocks  went  slowly,  snatch 
ing  at  tufts  of  scanty  grass  as  they  passed  to 
the  fold. 

"Two  miles,"  was  the  response  to  our  con 
stant  questions,  changed  after  a  time  to  "four 
miles,"  which  served  for  another  hour.  And 
still  no  white-walled  Tangier;  nothing  but 


ON    DONKEY-BACK    TO    CAPE    SPARTEL          93 

these  gloomy  mountains,  this  desolate  plain, 
and  hill  upon  hill  beyond.  Up  and  down 
through  more  wadies  deep  to  descend,  out  to 
some  acres  of  moorland  with  all  the  color  faded 
out,  and  still  the  same  two  miles  to  cover. 

Then  darkness  came,  the  swift  darkness  that 
the  eye  in  time  adjusts  itself  to,  and  out  of  the 
darkness  a  gleam  here  and  there,  then  blessed 
Tangier. 

But  before  we  clattered  over  its  stones,  long 
before,  our  guides  left  us  almost  alone,  to  pull 
off  their  turbans  and  fezzes  and  bow  toward  the 
west  where  the  sun  should  have  given  us  one  line 
of  glory.  The  impatient  beasts,  with  no  kin 
dred  religious  emotion,  backed  and  stamped  and 
pressed  one  against  another,  until  to  our  relief 
their  masters  appeared  and  started  the  line  of 
march. 

Up  a  height  to  the  great  Socco  di  Barra  we 
paced  soberly  under  dense  trees,  high  above  the 
roadway;  and  the  living  lights  below  were  a  joy 
to  the  eyes.  And  so  at  last  we  came  home, 
ambling  down  the  awful,  cobbled  ways  where  no 
donkey  stumbled  or  slipped,  and  climbed  in 
safety  to  the  wide  courtyard — just  in  time  for 
seven  o'clock  dinner — the  Bay  of  Tangier  with 


94 

its  full  tide  before  our  very  door,  the  Riffl 
Mountain  at  our  right  breaking  out  into  stars 
among  its  oaks  and  olives. 


OUT  OF  THE  PAST 


THE  ABBEY'S  LEGEND 

A  S  long  ago  as  when  three  figures  told  the 
century,  a  little  company  of  devout  monks 
found  an  unoccupied  knoll  in  a  swamp  where 
the  river  Thames  makes  a  great  southward 
sweep,  and  there  built  a  monastery  with  Peter 
for  patron  saint. 

Years  afterwards,  Edward  the  Confessor 
founded  glorious  Westminster  Abbey  on  this 
very  spot,  where  at  the  time  of  our  story  no  one 
had  so  much  as  dreamed  of  the  future  fame  of 
the  lonely  little  chapel,  which,  like  a  rough, 
brown  seed,  held  within  itself  the  possibility  of 
exceeding  greatness. 

There  was  a  clear  spring  near  by  where  the 
monks  might  fill  their  abstemious  cups,  or  dip 
the  hard  bread  which  they  begged  day  by  day 
in  London  town.  What  an  outing  it  must  have 
been,  breaking  the  monotony  of  uneventful  days 
that  bore  their  generation  on  as  quietly  as  the 
river  before  them  floated  its  driftwood  to  the 
sea! 

Meantime,  while  the  chapel  was  in  the  green- 


98  MADDALENA'S  DAY 

ness  of  its  youth,  the  hour  drew  near  for  its 
dedication,  and  one  can  fancy  the  ripple  of 
anticipation  that  stirred  within  the  patient 
breasts  of  men  who  told  their  beads  and  kept 
long  fasts  and  weary  vigils  without  hope  of 
earthly  recompense. 

One  dark  night,  the  Sunday  before  the  day 
appointed  for  the  chapel's  dedication,  a  poor 
fisherman,  Edric  by  name,  rowed  slowly  up  and 
down  the  Thames.  All  day  long  he  had  worked 
faithfully,  but,  in  the  very  places  where  fish 
were  to  be  had  almost  for  the  asking,  this  day 
he  had  caught  none.  At  last  he  laid  down  the 
oars  in  despair,  and,  with  uncomplimentary 
thoughts  of  the  saints  whose  business  it  was  to 
look  after  his  interests,  sat  with  his  chin  sunken 
on  his  breast  and  his  hard  hands  clasped 
around  his  cold  knees,  when  suddenly,  out  of 
the  very  middle  of  the  silence  around  him,  he 
heard,  or  thought  he  heard,  a  voice  calling  his 
name. 

It  was  not  the  sharp  voice  of  his  wife,  which 
had  more  than  once  broken  in  upon  his  reveries 
by  heralding  his  ill  luck,  but  an  unknown,  mel 
low  sound  that  by  keen  contrast  made  little 
shivers  chase  down  his  aching  spine. 


99 

As  he  looked  about  him  warily,  a  light  from 
the  shore  flashed  on  the  water  and  trembled  like 
a  reflected  star  at  the  boat's  head.  Edric 
hastily  caught  up  his  oars,  and,  pulling  in  the 
direction  of  the  voice,  saw  an  old  man  on  the 
bank,  who  beckoned  him  with  one  hand,  and  as 
he  drew  near  begged  to  be  rowed  across  the 
river. 

Now,  whether  Edric  chanced  to  be  a  soft 
hearted  fellow  in  those  hard  old  days,  or 
whether  conscience  pricked  because  he  had  gone 
a-fishing  on  the  Sabbath-day,  I  cannot  tell. 
But  be  that  as  it  may,  he  quickly  made  ready 
for  his  passenger  without  first  claiming  a  fee, 
and  when  the  stranger  was  seated  turned  his 
boat  across  the  stream  towards  the  monastery. 

Once  or  twice  Edric  cleared  his  throat  cheer 
fully  to  address  the  venerable  figure  which  sat 
silently,  with  crossed  arms,  facing  him;  but 
after  all  he  had  nothing  to  say,  especially  with 
out  encouragement,  so  they  went  on  without  a 
word. 

A  heavy,  black  robe  lay  in  long  lines  over  the 
knees  of  Edric's  companion,  except  for  one  fold 
that  was  thrown  backward  over  the  head,  con 
cealing  the  hair  and  most  of  the  forehead.  The 


100 

face  was  chiefly  in  shadow,  but  now  and  then, 
as  Edric  glanced  towards  it,  a  light  like  that  of 
two  near  stars  shone  on  him  from  beneath  the 
heavy  brows,  and  made  him  uncomfortable,  and 
awkward  with  the  oars. 

Once  across,  the  stranger  leaped  out  like 
a  lad,  and,  without  so  much  as  a  thank- 
you,  though  his  looks  were  courteous,  walked 
straight  to  the  chapel,  which  on  the  instant 
blazed  at  every  window  with  a  soft,  warm  light 
like  that  of  a  thousand  candles — a  cheery  sight 
to  a  fisherman  who  was  not  only  hungry,  but 
wet  and  shivering  as  well. 

Edric  was  a  bold  man,  and  not  one  whit 
afraid  of  a  miracle,  which  was  a  thing  not  to  be 
carped  at ;  so  he  moored  his  boat  and  drew 
nearer.  And  lo !  like  the  swift  patter  of  a  sum 
mer  shower  on  fluttering  leaves,  a  soft,  swishing 
sound  fell  all  around  his  ears,  and  a  billowing 
host  of  angels  alighted  within  an  arrow's  length 
of  where  he  stood.  It  was  as  if  they  "brake 
through  the  sky";  or,  rather,  as  if  the  earthly 
atmosphere  grew  thin,  and  revealed  them  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  heavenly  place  where  it  touched 
the  earthly.  Then  they  glided  into  the 
chapel — but  whether  with  wings  or  without, 


101 

Edric  could  never  remember — the  stranger 
leading  the  host,  and  there,  with  litanies  and 
genuflexions,  the  celestial  convoy  dedicated  it 
to  the  service  of  the  Highest. 

Edric  had  heard  the  monks  singing  both  at 
matins  and  at  vespers  as  he  threw  his  lines  and 
pulled  in  his  fish  day  by  day ;  but  never  had  he 
listened  to  such  Te  Deums  and  Glorias  as  these 
that  shook  the  monastery  like  a  mighvy  wind. 
He  was  creeping  cautiously  to  the  threshold  of 
the  door,  throbbing  with  curiosity,  anrl  wonder 
ing  if  it  were  lawful  to  enter,  or  even  to  look 
upon  the  altar,  when  there  came  a  rustle,  a 
sweep  of  vast  wings,  and  sudden  darkness,  and 
out  of  the  darkness  the  voice  of  the  stranger: 

"Give  me  to  eat,  Edric,"  it  said. 

But  Edric  replied,  cap  in  hand,  "I  have 
toiled  all  night  and  taken  nothing." 

"Where  learnedst  thou  those  words?"  the  old 
man  asked;  and  as  Edric's  pupils  expanded  in 
the  starlight,  which  was  the  only  light,  now  that 
the  chapel  stood  a  black  heap  against  the  sky, 
he  saw  that  the  stranger  smiled;  and  a  sudden 
flash  of  thought  made  the  fisherman  catch  his 
breath. 

"Be  not  afraid,"  the  stranger  said  benignly. 


102  MADDALENA'S  DAY 

"I  am  Peter,  and  I  feed  my  Lord's  sheep  as  He 
commanded  me.  Thou  rememberest  the  words 
in  Holy  Writ?  And  I  hold  the  keys  of  Heaven 
— they  are  even  now  in  the  pocket  of  my  robe — 
and  open  to  whom  I  will.  I  must  be  gone,  for 
a  great  multitude  is  even  now  waiting  at  the 
gate.  Be  not  afraid,  but  hearken." 

"I  fear  naught,"  said  the  fisherman;  "that 
is,  naught  but  the  devil" ;  but  his  teeth  chat 
tered' M,S  he  crossed  himself. 

/;r«Go  then  "to  the  Bishop,"  commanded  Peter, 
"and  't'eir  him  what  thou  hast  seen  and  heard 
this  night.  And  hereafter  thou  shalt  find  good 
fishing,  save  only  on  a  Sunday.  Promise  me 
thou  wilt  not  drop  line  on  the  holy  day,  and 
that  thou  wilt  give  food  to  my  poor." 

Edric  promised  quickly,  for  indeed  he  could 
not  well  do  less,  knowing  that  he  was  keeping 
souls  out  of  Heaven ;  and  as  the  saint  vanished, 
with  much  jingling  of  keys,  he  made  clumsy 
haste  to  put  the  river  between  himself  and  the 
chapel. 

Next  day,  when  the  Bishop  arrived  with 
mitre  and  crozier  and  a  great  retinue,  the 
fisherman  met  him  on  the  farther  river  bank 
with  a  noble  salmon  in  his  hand,  the  gift  of 


THE  ABBEY'S  LEGEND  103 

Peter,  and  told  him  in  many  words  the  tale  of 
the  night  just  past. 

And  so  it  befell  that  the  chapel  had  no 
further  consecration,  for  even  the  Bishop  was 
not  sure  that  he  could  surpass  St.  Peter  and 
his  angels. 


THE  PRIEST'S  DILEMMA 

1 T  was  fast  growing  dark  in  the  vast  cathedral, 
and  the  Father  who  was  old  and  weary  leaned 
his  heavy  head  on  both  hands,  and  in  the  deep 
shadows  of  the  confessional  quite  lost  his 
thoughts. 

Suddenly  a  curious,  creepy  sound  startled 
him;  and  looking  up,  dazed  and  penitent  for 
his  fault,  he  thought  one  of  the  high  angels 
above  the  choir  had  dropped  his  trumpet  and 
come  to  him  for  help.  Half-dreaming  still,  he 
murmured,  "Go  to  Saint  Anthony — Anthony 
of  Padua,  you  know."  But  the  thought  passed 
quickly,  and  he  brushed  it  aside  as  if  it  had 
been  one  of  the  cobwebs  that  often  swept  across 
his  face  and  hands  in  the  holy  place. 

Right  before  him  stood  the  most  beautiful 
creature  his  old  eyes  had  ever  looked  upon,  tall 
and  strong  and  broad-shouldered  and  fair,  with 
eyes  the  color  of  spring  violets  and  a  gleam  of 
gold  in  the  heart  of  them  like  smouldering  fire. 

"What  wilt  thou,  son?"  he  asked,  crossing 
himself;  for  he  feared  with  a  deadly  fear  this 
young  angel  of  light  who  stood  unabashed  in 


105 

his  presence, — so  bold  and  strong  indeed  that 
the  good  Father  crossed  himself  again  as  he 
thought  and  was  afraid,  and  thought  again,  of 
the  angels  who  lost  their  first  estate. 

Then  the  youth  spoke,  and  the  priest  trem 
bled  with  a  deadly  fear  from  the  top  of  his 
tonsure  to  the  soles  of  his  outworn  sandals. 
For  a  kind  of  crazed  lightning  ran  quivering 
before  his  eyes,  and  he  thought  death  was  near, 
and  reached  out  to  lay  hold  on  something  to 
steady  and  sustain  him  in  his  place.  And  the 
darting  light,  now  dim,  now  glowing,  passed  be 
fore  him  like  the  flower  light  of  the  Aurora, 
which  opens  like  a  blossom  and  quivers  and 
closes  and  quivers  again,  making  the  dark 
luminous.  So,  clutching  his  stool  with  one 
hand,  he  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  above  his 
eyes  and  was  glad  that  the  vision  had  gone  to 
gether  with  the  dim  lightnings  and  fearful 
quakings  that  stopped  his  breath  and  made  his 
heart  stand  still  in  his  throat. 

But  even  as  he  prayed  in  thankfulness  it 
came  again,  and  torrents  of  prismatic  color 
flooded  the  cathedral  and  rolled  in  great  billows 
above  the  choir,  but  left  the  cross  in  velvet 
blackness.  "What  wilt  thou,  my  son?"  the 


106  MADDALENA'S  DAY 

good  priest  asked  again,  but  more  feebly  this 
time;  and  the  youth  answered  in  a  wonderful 
voice,  "Absolve  me  from  my  weight  of  sin,  for 
its  burden  is  too  great  for  me — even  for  me." 

Then  into  the  shocked  ears  of  the  priest  the 
bold,  beautiful  creature  poured  such  a  tale  of 
horrors  that  the  good  man  shook  with  terror. 

"Nay,  my  son !"  he  chattered  at  length,  when 
his  breath  came  to  him  again.  And  in  the 
silence  that  was  dreadful  with  sound  he  reached 
for  his  crucifix. 

"Kiss  this  holy  symbol  in  penitence,"  he  said, 
"and  if  thou  hast  seven  devils  the  Christ  is  able 
to  cast  them  out." 

But  even  as  he  spoke  the  air  trembled  and  the 
vast  cathedral  seemed  moved  out  of  its  place, 
and  with  the  sound  of  dreadful  thunder  the 
youth  glided  away,  seeming  to  creep  and 
shrink  as  he  passed  the  high  altar.  And  the 
Father,  half-dazed  and  wholly  stricken  by  the 
sight,  saw  that  this  his  guest  had  great  wings 
of  purple  that  flashed  with  many-colored  light, 
broken  at  the  tips  with  here  and  there  the  web 
torn  apart,  which  still  sternly  and  masterfully 
beat  the  air  like  an  imprisoned  bird  mad  for 
freedom. 


THE  PRIEST'S  DILEMMA  107 

And  the  poor  priest,  for  all  his  holy  living, 
his  fasting  and  scourging,  never  knew  to  his 
dying  hour  whether  he  was  blest  or  curst  be 
cause  he  had  failed  to  shrive  a  Prince  of 
Darkness. 


THE  INIQUITY  OF  MIDAS 

KlNG  MIDAS,  after  his  notable  encounter 
with  Apollo,  wearied  of  the  reed  country  with  its 
telltale  whisperings,  and  set  out  alone  for  the 
town. 

All  along  the  way  spring  daffodils  blossomed, 
and  anemones  with  scarlet  poppies  brightened 
the  fields  of  corn  and  meadows  where  the  cattle 
fed. 

Midas  yearned  to  gather  armfuls  of  their 
splendor,  but  knew  well  that  the  burden  of  them 
once  touched  would  weigh  him  to  earth.  So  he 
clasped  his  hands  tight  and  sang  as  he  went: 

O  Great  Apollo! 
Take  back  thy  gift 
Or  let  me  share  it 
Amid  a  host. 

As  he  went  singing  thus  through  the  byways 
to  the  town  young  children  met  him  crowned 
with  garlands  of  poppies,  bearing  shredded  cac 
tus  leaves  for  their  goats;  but  he  could  not 
trust  himself  to  kiss  their  innocence  or  bless 


THE    INIQUITY    OF    MIDAS  109 

them  with  his  hands,  lest  he  turn  them  to  price 
less  images  of  gold.  And  as  he  went  sadly  and 
dumbly  on  the  song  died  on  his  lips  and  became 
a  curse  in  his  heart.  For  all  men  taunted  him 
and  laid  their  hands  to  their  ears,  waving  them 
back  and  forth  in  derision.  And  as  he  was  king 
of  an  alien  country  only  they  had  no  fear  of 
him.  Also  they  well  knew  that  an  unfortunate 
creature  cannot  be  heard  by  strange  gods  when 
he  calls  upon  them  for  redress. 

Presently  there  passed  by  an  old  man  and 
forlorn,  bent  and  gray,  and  most  pitifully  clad ; 
and  Midas  seeing  this  beckoned  him  aside  into 
the  shadow  of  a  high  wall  and  offered  him  plen 
tiful  store  of  gold  in  exchange  for  his  ears. 

Age  is  sordid  indeed  when  its  ideals  are  dead. 
But  the  old  man's  ears  were  of  little  use  to  him, 
being  dulled  by  years,  and  he  hurried  away 
drawing  scant  locks  over  those  newly  acquired, 
though  they  would  not  be  covered — ears  that 
turned  this  way  and  that,  harking  for  disaster 
on  every  side.  But  his  hands  were  full  of  gold, 
and  as  he  crept  stiffly  along  the  road  where  he 
had  danced  in  his  childhood  the  mob  looked  on 
with  wonder  and  desire,  running  from  far  and 
near  to  see  the  strange  sight. 


110 

"All  this  for  asses'  ears !"  the  old  man  cried, 
showing  his  gold;  and  the  multitude  ran  and 
shouted,  and  some  fell  down  at  his  feet  crying, 
"A  boon !  A  boon !" 

"Wilt  thou  have  these  ears  with  the  gold?" 
he  cried;  and  they  knelt  in  the  dust  and  wor 
shiped  him. 

One  man  only  of  the  throng  stood  aloof  with 
scorn  in  his  eyes: 

"All  that  gold  can  buy,  thou  sayest?" 

"Yea." 

"House  and  lands,  food  and  wine,  slaves  and 
followers,  praise  and  paeans?" 

"Yea." 

"Friends  and  home,  wife  and  children,  faith 
and  love,  free  will  and  a  noble  heart  ?" 

The  old  man  stood  silent,  lines  of  pain  mar 
ring  his  face  above  its  wrinkles. 

"Fare  thee  well !"  cried  the  other.  "Peddle 
thy  gold  elsewhere." 

But  the  man  of  priceless  treasure  had  few  re 
buffs  ;  and  soon  having  slaves  to  serve  him 
tasted  rare  food  and  rarer  wine,  though  his 
couch  was  hard  as  iron,  and  his  old  bones 
creaked  and  chilled  at  night. 

And  even  the  vision  of  countless  gold  ceased 


THE    INIQUITY    OF     MIDAS  111 

to  cheer  him  when  he  heard  with  quickened  ears 
the  wail  that  went  up  to  Heaven  from  a 
stricken  city  where  there  was  neither  love  nor 
hope,  faith  nor  charity,  and  the  fairest  youths 
and  maidens  were  but  hollow  golden  shells. 

So  King  Midas  scattered  lavishly  in  royal 
fashion  his  woes  with  their  evil  labels  that 
promised  gifts ;  and  a  great  city  died.  Only  a 
single  soul  survived;  and  that  was  kept  in  a 
sheath  of  youth  that  held  its  own  ideals  high 
above  the  power  and  shame  and  misery  of  gold. 

As  for  the  Innocents  they  went  dancing  on, 
and  are  playing  still  in  fields  of  sunshine  where 
their  goats  browse  happily  or  rest  on  beds  of 
red  poppies  and  fragrant  asphodel,  where  the 
bees  buzz  all  day  long  and  only  the  shepherd's 
pipe  and  the  pleasant  bells  of  the  herd  break 
the  stillness  of  the  summer  air. 


A  BRIEF  FOR  MISTRESS  SOCRATES 

W  HO  can  tell  us  anything  of  the  wife  of 
Socrates?  Persistent  through  the  long,  slow 
ages,  one  bitter  drop  has  trickled  down  to  blot 
the  name:  "Xanthippe,  wife  of  Socrates, 
reputed  to  be  a  scold."  Somewhat  grudgingly 
it  is  suggested  that  she  was  a  good  housewife. 

It  is  a  cruel  thing  to  be  hounded  down  the 
unresisting  centuries,  to  be  pilloried  from  gen 
eration  to  generation,  even  to  the  end  of  time, 
as  the  shrewish  wife  of  a  serene  philosopher. 
But  are  not  all  serene  philosophers  "gey  ill  to 
live  wi'  "?  Effects  do  not  come  without  causes 
in  any  save  a  chance  world. 

We  like  to  fancy  that  Xanthippe  was  once 
upon  a  time  a  young  Greek  girl  with  all  that 
the  name  implies.  We  suspect  that  she  had 
grace  if  not  beauty,  and  certainly  some  measure 
of  wisdom  since  she  chose  a  man  of  repute  in 
stead  of  a  flute-playing  shepherd,  or  other 
philandering  boy.  We  fancy  her  in  slim  tunic, 
with  delicate  sandaled  feet,  a  fillet  binding  her 
soft  hair,  or  a  chaplet  of  bitter-sweet  aspho 
del — a  little,  bright  Persephone  knee-deep  in 


A    BRIEF    FOR    MISTRESS    SOCRATES  113 

bee-haunted  fields  of  flowers,  a  dancing  creature 
haloed  with  all  the  light  of  life,  among  her 
shepherd  playmates;  leading  shaggy  goats  by 
their  beards ;  wreathing  their  crooked  horns 
with  scarlet  poppies;  playing  it  was  the  great 
god  Pan  she  had  found  and  captured;  offering 
gifts  of  cactus  leaves  shorn  of  their  sharp 
prickles;  chasing  the  homing  wild  bee  to  dis 
cover  its  honey  hoard  gathered  from  Hybla  or 
Hymettus  or  the  asphodel  fields  at  the  foot  of 
the  Acropolis,  where  the  shepherd  boys  lay 
through  the  long  sunny  noons  and  watched 
their  flocks  or  sang  rough  ditties  to  Xan 
thippe's  hair  or  eyes  or  flying  feet. 

How  the  philosopher  won  this  bright  being  of 
air  and  sunshine  we  may  not  know.  We  are 
told  that  Socrates,  like  Marsyas  the  Satyr,  had 
thick  lips,  staring  eyes  and  a  misshapen  body. 
Are  not  women  in  all  ages  of  the  world  burning 
perpetual  incense  at  the  shrine  of  some  pre 
posterous  idol? 

Do  not  doubt  that  Xanthippe  had  some 
present-day  problems  to  solve.  Socrates  had 
the  faculty  of  indigence.  Poor  Xanthippe ! 
Children  came  to  their  meager  home,  and  when 
she  begged  for  bread  her  philosopher,  their 


114 

father,  gave  her — a  syllogism.  However  well 
syllogisms  may  nourish  mature  minds  they  are 
but  a  thin  and  juiceless  diet  for  the  youth 
whose  legs  are  growing  faster  than  his  brain. 
Xanthippe  might  have  answered  on  the  spur  of 
the  moment  some  of  the  high  questions  that  we 
admire  to-day: — What  is  Piety?  What  the 
Just  and  the  Unjust? 

As  time  dimmed  the  glamour  which  may  have 
obscured  the  early  vision  Xanthippe  must  have 
discovered  that  the  man  she  honored  for  his 
wisdom  was  far  from  the  standard  domestic 
type.  He  was  not  a  man  diligent  in  business, 
who,  according  to  Solomon,  shall  stand  before 
kings.  She  was  no  weak,  silly  Griselda,  praised 
of  men,  to  sacrifice  life  silently  to  a  vagrant 
philosopher  who  cared  neither  to  work  nor  to 
eat.  All  Xanthippe's  hammering  could  not 
make  gold-leaf  out  of  this  cushiony  gnome. 
Who  could  teach  the  sons  of  this  thriftless 
father,  this  breadwinner  who  had  to  be  hounded 
to  his  workshop,  who  never  made  a  statue  until 
driven  by  desperate  want,  preferring  to  be  like 
the  gods  who  want  nothing?  But  the  gods  had 
no  acknowledged  families  to  support. 

Thus  he  went  about  the  streets  with  young 


A    BRIEF    FOR    MISTRESS    SOCRATES  H5 

men  who  encouraged  him  to  waste  his  time  in 
talk  which,  so  far  as  Xanthippe  could  see, 
brought  no  revenue  to  the  household.  This 
woman  stood  too  near  the  ragged  philosopher 
to  observe  his  greatness.  In  days  like  these  of 
the  twentieth  century  Xanthippe  might  have 
voiced  her  wrongs  from  the  platform,  or  de 
manded  her  rights  by  stone-throwing  and 
parades.  But  so  far  as  we  can  learn  she  simply 
scolded. 

What  could  she  have  called  him  we  wonder. 
History  is  disdainfully  mute;  though  we  can 
think  of  perfectly  legitimate  epithets.  Yet  it 
has  passed  into  an  adage  that  hard  words  break 
no  bones.  There  is  no  evidence  of  battering. 

But  Socrates  did  not  set  up  for  a  man  of 
spirit:  he  only  wanted  to  know  the  Why  of 
things. — So,  doubtless,  did  Xanthippe. 

People  not  profane  in  their  own  right  may 
yet  be  the  cause  of  profanity  in  others.  With 
a  great  mind  on  great  themes  Socrates  may 
have  scattered  olive  stones  and  rare  bread — 
even  spilled  wine  that  left  stains — all  along 
Xanthippe's  tidy  atrium.  For  Pericles  and 
Aspasia,  with  slaves  to  come  at  handclapping, 
all  this  riot  of  untidiness  would  not  have  turned 


116 

a  feather.  Aspasia  could  have  smiled  and  made 
wise  speeches,  and  Pericles  would  have  walked 
blind.  But  Socrates'  boys  may  have  walked 
blind  also,  taking  after  their  father  as  boys 
have  been  known  to  do,  and  leaving  their  mother 
to  be  the  slave-at-call  in  her  own  person. 

To  the  young  Greek  who  knew  no  philosophy 
Socrates  must  have  been  a  figure  for  derision 
and  scoffing,  an  instigator  of  epithets.  He 
could  not  be  perturbed  by  trifles,  but  the  youth 
he  daily  led  may  have  possessed  fiery  spirits 
and  retaliated  on  poor  Xanthippe,  scandalized 
that  she  did  not  keep  their  master  in  better 
condition.  A  careful  wife  would  have  patched 
his  one  old  toga.  But  he  never  left  it  off  save 
to  shed  it  when  it  would  no  longer  cover  him. 
Doubtless  the  offended  wife  clutched  at  her 
husband  in  praiseworthy  exasperation  as  he 
serenely  set  sail  for  the  agora,  and  with  well- 
merited,  bitter  words  held  him  in  her  firm  grasp 
till  she  could  draw  together  into  decency  as 
few  of  the  rags  as  he  would  stand  still  for. 

Hampered  men  protest  under  such  condi 
tions  in  forcible  words.  Socrates  had  only 
mild,  philosophic  ones;  but  Xanthippe's  pro 
fanity  comes  down  to  us  by  implication  only 


A    BRIEF    FOR    MISTRESS    SOCRATES  117 

and  our  general  knowledge  of  human  nature. 
To  have  the  man  of  her  choice,  the  father  of  her 
sons,  a  laughing-stock  in  great  Athens,  an  ob 
ject  of  mirth  which  she  was  helpless  to  pre 
vent — poor  Xanthippe! 

His  very  good  nature — how  maddening!  A 
most  improper,  improbable-looking  man!  As 
if  nature  had  planned  a  satyr  and  suddenly  in 
the  midst  of  her  work  set  her  mind  upon  a  god. 
What  could  a  beauty-loving  Greek  woman  do, 
bitterly  ashamed  of  her  poverty-stricken,  rag 
ged,  happy,  barefoot  consort,  a  crowd  of  men 
and  boys  at  his  heels,  as  if  he  wore  cap  and 
bells,  discoursing  like  many  another  fool  in 
words  of  wisdom  that  made  him  still  more  con 
spicuous,  to  her  endless  shame ! 

And  after  all  is  said,  but  one  charge  is  made 
against  Mistress  Socrates.  Did  she  bar  the 
door  to  restrain  him  from  making  an  object  of 
himself  in  the  polite  streets  of  Athens?  Did 
she  attack  him  with  unseemly  violence  or  loud 
reproaches  in  the  marketplace?  Did  she  tell 
his  followers  in  burning  words  that  their  popu 
lar  idol  neither  fed  nor  taught  nor  clothed  those 
of  his  own  household?  If  so  there  is  no  evi 
dence  in  proof. 


118 

While  she  still  had  the  spirit  of  a  woman  was 
it  not  her  privilege  to  give  him  her  opinion  as 
to  the  kind  of  man  he  was  outside  his  philos 
ophy,  even  with  keen,  weapon-like  words? 

And  when  at  last,  as  the  hemlock  began  its 
deadly  work,  was  it  nothing  to  her  that  he 
ordered  all  women  out  of  his  presence? 

After  all,  is  it  not  better  to  be  written  A 
Scold  on  Time's  persistent  tablets  than  to  be 
lost  in  oblivion?  "Better,"  says  the  wise  man 
speaking  in  a  proverb,  "is  a  living  dog  than  a 
dead  lion." 

And  now  that  Mistress  Socrates'  long  ache  of 
life  is  over,  and  she  has  summered  in  Elysian 
fields  this  score  and  more  of  centuries,  may  she 
not  indulge  in  a  mild,  paradisiacal  thrill  to 
know  that  her  name  will  last  as  long  as  the 
pyramids  ? — That  it  will  wing  its  way  down  the 
dim  aisles  of  Time  side  by  side  with  Socrates' 
own,  when  the  disgraceful  old  toga  along  with 
the  masque  of  the  body  is  indistinguishable 
dust? — That  she,  in  her  proper  celestial  guise, 
no  longer  querulous  about  ways  and  means, 
may  meet  with  unclouded  brow  the  heroes  of 
forgotten  ages,  the  women  of  the  Caesars,  and 
as  many  of  the  proud  queens  of  this  old  planet 


A    BRIEF    FOR    MISTRESS    SOCRATES 

as  have  the  privilege;  and  no  longer  blush  for 
the  now  clothed-upon  man  who  was  a  perpetual 
reproach  to  her  in  a  former  state — the  one 
great  cause  of  her  sinning  with  her  tongue? 
Triumphant  Xanthippe! 


COPHETUA  AND  THE  BEGGAR-MAID 

ONCE  upon  a  time,  in  the  olden,  golden  days 
of  our  dreams,  lived  rare  King  Cophetua.  But 
his  young  majesty  was  no  dream;  neither  was 
he  an  African  prince,  as  has  more  than  once 
been  intimated  in  chronicle  and  legend,  and  this 
chiefly  because  he  wooed  and  won  a  beggar- 
maid. 

It  might  have  been  in  the  lovely  days  of 
Pan — who,  indeed,  lives  and  walks  the  good 
old  earth  now,  though  unseen  save  by  an  elect 
few;  but  in  some  far-off  delightful  age  he  had 
his  being,  blue-eyed,  yellow-haired  lad,  as  fine 
and  slim,  as  charming  and  pretty,  as  most 
princes  in  those  golden  days.  He  was  very 
young,  too ;  much  younger  than  I  dare  set  down 
in  the  cold  figures  of  mathematical  lore,  when 
the  dull  old  king  and  queen  died  and  left  him 
heir  to  the  ancient  crown,  with  the  freedom  of 
his  life  to  boot. 

Day  by  day,  as  he  sat  still  for  the  space  of 
a  minute  or  two,  happy  and  smiling  at  his  own 


COPHETUA  AND  THE  BEGGAR-MAID     121 

thoughts,  on  the  hard  throne,  his  people  bowed 
down  before  him  and  sang  his  praises  and 
begged  him  to  choose  a  gracious  queen  from  the 
willing  princesses  of  other  realms,  till  he  broke 
away  and  ran  off  to  play  with  his  hounds. 

"Let  well  enough  alone,"  quoth  he,  letting 
fall  crown  and  robes,  and  leaping  over  the  royal 
footstool  in  an  amazing  way.  And  let  well 
enough  alone  he  did  in  his  kingly  manner, 
despite  the  prayers  of  prostrate  courtiers  who 
encumbered  his  progress.  Since  he  was  mon 
arch  by  the  grace  of  God  and  the  death  of  his 
ancestors,  king  he  would  be,  and  his  own  way 
he  would  have. 

So,  as  this  became  more  and  more  apparent, 
even  his  chamberlain,  his  master  of  horse,  his 
polisher  of  crown  jewels,  his  keeper  of  the  seal, 
together  with  a  horde  of  knights  and  barons 
and  esquires,  did  not  nag  him  as  they  might 
under  other  conditions,  but  took  things  easy, 
as  they  came,  and  his  cook  and  bottlewasher 
and  such  other  inconsequent  folk  as  held  sway 
in  the  royal  kitchens  carried  off  odds  and  ends 
and  half-bottles — and  often  by  sheer  accident 
whole  ones — at  a  rate  that  would  have  made 
the  old  king  and  queen  tear  their  hair.  Some- 


122 

times,  indeed,  they  killed  a  pet  pig,  which  their 
sovereign  innocently  ate  unbeknowing  for  his 
breakfast,  the  larder  being  quite  bare  of  things 
to  hash  up  or  warm  over  on  account  of  this 
careless  habit  of  the  under  household.  Indeed 
it  was  high  time  for  a  proper  queen  to  rule  both 
king  and  palace,  only  young  Cophetua  had 
never  considered  it. 

One  fine  morning,  just  fit  for  out  of  doors, 
when  his  lords  were  squabbling  within  over  some 
trifling  matter  of  law  or  court  etiquet,  making 
things  not  only  loud  but  disagreeable,  the  king 
picked  up  his  crown  and  his  cloth-of-gold 
mantle  and  took  his  scepter  from  the  corner, 
but  considered  and  set  it  up  again,  then  pulled 
on  his  riding  boots  with  their  gold  spurs,  all  by 
himself,  which  was  no  small  matter — as  he  had 
no  knowledge  of  right  and  left — and  picked 
his  way  softly  to  the  stables,  creeping  along 
by  the  wrong  side  of  the  hedges.  All  the  way  he 
went  stumbling  and  chuckling  to  himself  over 
his  narrow  escape,  and  at  length  found  and 
saddled  his  own  glossy  black  Lucifer,  jingling 
with  ecstasy  the  jeweled  rein  as  he  mounted, 
with  no  one  to  so  much  as  kneel  in  his  way  and 
hold  his  stirrups.  And  the  amazed  creature, 


COPHETUA    AND    THE    BEGGAR-MAID          123 

who  turned  one  fiery,  backward  eye  on  his 
master,  forgot  to  rear  and  plunge  with  no 
baseborn  groom  at  hand  to  kick. 

So  the  king  found  it  a  simple  matter  to 
mount,  and  rode  away  in  no  special  direction, 
unobserved,  clasping  in  pure  joy  the  hands  that 
held  easy  reins,  and  bubbling  with  fun  when  he 
thought  what  a  to-do  there  would  be  in  the 
palace  after  the  rumpus  was  over  and  the  lords 
temporal  began  to  rub  their  eyes  and  look 
for  the  lost  king,  to  kick  each  others'  shins  for 
carelessly  letting  him  escape,  and  to  scold  the 
maids  for  not  attending  to  the  bloodshed  and 
broken-up  rushes  before  his  majesty  was  found. 

All  of  which  they  might  have  taken  their  time 
about,  had  they  known. 

For  there  he  rode,  sonsie,  pretty  young 
Cophetua,  miles  and  miles  away,  over  hills  and 
through  swamps,  to  say  nothing  of  brooks  and 
rivers,  that  made  his  boots  and  mantle  heavy, 
till  he  came  at  last  to  a  lonesome  hut  with  a 
pig  in  the  door  and  many  children  tumbling 
and  shouting  in  the  dark  within.  For  there 
were  no  windows,  and  the  door  was  just  the 
width  of  the  pig  as  he  stood  broadside,  divided 
in  his  mind  between  the  game  going  on  inside 


124  MADDALENA'S  DAY 

and  the  chance  of  some  scraps  of  food  else 
where. 

Cophetua  drew  rein  and  laughed  long  and 
loud,  for  there  wasn't  so  much  as  a  court  fool 
to  hear,  and  tossed  over  the  pig's  back  a  hand 
ful  of  gold  pieces  that  were  by  chance  in  his 
doublet  pocket,  and  rode  on.  But  not  far. 

For  there,  wading  in  a  pretty  puddle  at  the 
edge  of  a  wood,  was  the  sweetest  maid  he  ever 
laid  eyes  on.  She  was  no  more  akin  to  the 
numberless  princesses  he  had  seen,  with  their 
Griselda  smiles  and  bashful  miens,  than  she  was 
to  the  pig  that  raced  out  at  the  door  and 
chased,  grunting  and  squealing  hungrily,  after 
him,  with  all  the  children — no  end  of  them. 

Indeed,  to  think  again,  the  pig  might  have 
laid  claim  to  her  sooner  than  the  king's 
daughters.  Her  long  black  hair  waving  and 
curly  at  the  glistening  ends  rippled  all  over  her 
in  mad  abundance.  And  well,  0  king!  that  it 
did!  For  beside  it  she  had  nothing  belonging 
to  her — positively  nothing  but  a  few  uncon- 
sidered  rags  and  tags  and  streamers  of  past 
clothing  to  keep  out  sun  and  rain,  let  alone  the 
wind  and  folks'  prejudices. 

Now   the   figure   that    stood   dripping   from 


COPHETUA  AND  THE  BEGGAR-MAID    125 

head  to  foot  in  the  puddle  and  not  so  much  as 
blinking  at  sight  of  a  crowned  king,  seemed  to 
the  lad  so  lovely,  so  splendid  in  color  with  the 
splendor  of  pomegranate  blossoms,  that  as  he 
knew  now  what  he  wanted  quite  as  well  as  what 
he  didn't  want,  he  just  leaned  down  and  picking 
it  up  with  one  hand  set  it  on  his  saddle  bow 
with  a  sigh  of  perfect  content ;  never  having 
had  his  own  mantle  to  scour,  nor  his  horse's 
gear  withal. 

"By  the  splendor  of  the  sun  I  will  marry 
you !"  cried  Cophetua,  kissing  a  hundred  times 
the  sweet  unwashen  mouth  that  smiled  up  at 
him  unafraid — and  he  with  his  glittering 
crown  on ! 

"What  is  marry?"  laughed  the  other. 
And — "I  will  tell  you  as  we  ride,"  whispered 
the  king;  for  a  certain  awe  came  over  him  at 
sight  of  her  childlikeness ;  and  clinking  the 
jeweled  rein  he  shooed  the  little  tribe  that  clung 
around  Lucifer,  not  in  the  very  least  afraid  of 
his  heels,  having  never  in  all  their  lives  seen  so 
much  as  a  donkey,  nor  anything  nearer  its 
shape  than  the  pig  that  was  grunting  and  nos 
ing  their  bare  toes.  And  Lucifer  of  the  fiery 
eye  and  nimble  heels  stood  meek  as  a  lamb  to 


126  MADDALENA'S  DAY 

be  patted  and  danced  around,  trying  to  puzzle 
out  in  his  wise  brain  what  these  goings-on 
might  mean.  But  all  the  king's  shooing  was 
to  no  purpose;  for  the  little  barbarians  under 
stood  it  as  little  as  they  did  court  etiquet. 

So  Cophetua  rummaged  his  pockets  and 
found  more  gold,  and  standing  in  his  stirrups 
with  the  dripping  maid  held  close,  flung  it  back 
as  far  as  ever  he  could.  And  being  a  strong 
and  determined  monarch  it  flew  far  and  wide. 

The  children  scattered  with  shouts  and  the 
pig  galloped  after,  for  he  was  a  thin  creature 
and  unpampered.  Then  his  royal  master  put 
golden  spurs  urgently  to  Lucifer  and  away 
they  sped,  the  maiden's  beautiful  hair  stream 
ing  across  the  lad's  enamored  eyes  and  blinding 
their  blueness  to  the  fact  that  a  puddle  was  the 
only  bath  his  divine  bride-to-be  ever  had. 

Presently  he  drew  sudden  rein  at  a  high 
hedge,  and  caught  a  ragged  priest  hiding  with 
a  rabbit  under  his  cloak. 

"Come  hither  and  marry  me!"  commanded 
the  king;  and  the  priest,  hastily  crossing  him 
self,  tied  the  rabbit's  legs  together  with  a  handy 
twig  and  tossed  it  into  the  bushes  away  from 
temptation. 


COPHETUA    AND    THE    BEGGAR-MAID          127 

"What  is  your  name?"  queried  the  holy  man 
bowing  to  the  very  earth  and  rubbing  his 
muddy  hands  along  the  sides  of  his  gown  that 
was  well  used  to  it. 

"Sure  I  have  none  at  all,"  quoth  the  pome 
granate  maid,  shaking  back  her  veil  of  shadowy 
hair  and  looking  him  straight  in  the  eye. 

"But  they  must  call  you  something,  my 
dear,"  quavered  his  reverence,  looking  up  and 
down  and  everywhere  but  at  the  king;  wishing 
himself  hampered  and  out  of  sight  in  the  hedge 
row  like  his  prey. 

"Whatever  they  call  me  I  never  come,"  she 
smiled  back  at  the  distraught,  unseeing  figure, 
who  crossed  himself  again  hurriedly,  calling  on 
long-neglected  saints  to  come  to  his  aid  in  this 
awful  crisis. 

"But,  my  liege,"  he  gasped,  scared  out  of  his 
few  wits  at  his  own  daring,  "I  can  never,  never 
marry  an  unchristian  child  to  your  sacred 
majesty." 

"Make  no  more  ado;  this  is  only  the  civil 
way,"  mused  the  king  casually,  thinking  hard 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life.  "Marry  me  quick, 
and  you  shall  be  chaplain  royal  for  life  and 
christen  the  queen  whenever  you  will." 


128  MADDALENA'S  DAY 

"Methinks  'tis  a  most  uncivil  way,"  muttered 
the  priest  under  his  breath,  listening  the  while 
to  a  faint  sound  of  kicking  behind  the  hedge, 
fearing  lest  his  rabbit  soup  and  the  king's 
promise  should  be  alike  uncertain.  "And  to 
marry  at  the  saddle  bow  instead  of  at  the 
altar — by  all  the  saints!  'tis  irregular.  But 
the  king's  word  is  law ;  besides  I  will  scourge  me 
all  night  at  my  Aves  and  escape  perdition  if 
I  may." 

Looking  up  at  last  and  holding  his  life  in 
both  hands,  still  doubtful  of  his  soul's  salvation, 
he  asked  all  in  a  quiver : 

"Wilt  thou  have  this  man  to  thy  wedded 
husband,  though  he  be  the  king?"  forgetting  in 
his  distress  to  name  his  royal  master  first  and 
shaking  in  his  sandals  as  the  enormity  of  it  near 
overcame  him. 

But  the  maid  laughed  outright,  and  looking 
happy  Cophetua  out  of  countenance  said,  "Can 
I  ride  this  horse  with  you  when  I  will?" 

"You  can !"  quoth  the  king,  who  would  never 
learn  grammar  for  all  his  tutors'  tears,  and 
was  a  match  for  the  little  queen-to-be  in  num 
berless  ways  besides. 

I  am  sure  you  would  laugh — you  who  are 


COPHETUA    AND    THE    BEGGAR-MAID          129 

old  and  wise — at  the  simple  things  these  two- 
now-one  talked  about  all  the  long  way  home; 
the  things  concerning  courts  and  lords  and 
ladies  that  made  the  queen  laugh,  it  was  all  so 
foolishly  unlike  the  simple  life  she  had  led 
hitherto.  Indeed,  there  were  many  things  she 
couldn't  so  much  as  ask  about,  not  knowing 
how.  So  she  contented  herself  with  pulling  off 
the  king's  crown  and  setting  it  on  her  own  head 
without  a  thought  of  her  robes,  and  the  first 
thing  the  frightened  pages  saw  as  Lucifer  can 
tered  up  to  the  palace  gate  was  a  queer  some 
thing  all  floating  hair  and  fluttering  rags  wear 
ing  the  sacred  crown  and  stroking  the  bare, 
golden  head  that  leaned  to  her. 

It  was  the  court  jester  at  last  who  told  the 
unthinkable  tale  and  was  beaten  for  it ;  and  in 
deed  there  was  a  terrible  to-do  along  with  the 
loss  of  the  king  and  this  new  scandal;  the 
chamberlain  tearing  his  scant  locks,  and  the 
high  and  mighty  lords  temporal  breaking  each 
others'  heads,  which  was  more  to  the  purpose 
in  a  queerly  conducted  realm. 

But  nobody  dared  fall  upon  the  king  who  had 
created  so  great  a  diversion,  so  they  all  fell  at 
his  feet  instead;  while  a  page  called  one  maid, 


130  MADDALENA'S  DAY 

and  she  another  and  still  another,  all  along  the 

line  of  high  and  higher  degree,  till  they  reached 

a   stately  lady-in-waiting  who   took  the  little 

queen  off,  by  royal  order,  to  be  washed  and 

brushed  and  given  over  to  the  mistress  of  the 

robes. 

Time  would  fail  me,  even  if  I  were  able  to  tell 
how  her  majesty  behaved  at  court  or  in  hall; 
how  she  laughed  in  the  faces  of  solemn  lords 
temporal  and  still  more  solemn  lords  spiritual ; 
how  she  chose — and  not  only  that  but  insisted 
upon — her  own  fantastic  name  at  the  font — a 
name  so  fantastic  that  all  the  ages  since  have 
called  her  simply  after  her  low  estate;  and 
spattered  the  holy  water  in  the  meek  chaplain's 
face,  for  Cophetua  was  as  good  as  his  royal 
word,  which  the  poor  priest  knew  was  not 
always  the  case,  and  promoted  him  from  hedge 
row  to  chancel  at  once. 

The  proper  courtiers  stood  first  on  one  foot 
and  then  shiftily  on  the  other  in  overwhelming 
embarrassment  when  their  queen  ran  races  with 
the  willing  pages  in  the  great  courtyard,  bare 
foot  and  bareheaded,  dropping  the  crown  just 
where  she  happened  to  and  tucking  up  her  robes 
like  a  charwoman;  and  felt  lumps  in  their 


COPHETUA    AND    THE    BEGGAR-MAID          131 

throats  when  she  changed  suits  with  the  king's 
fool  and  shook  her  bells  in  prelates'  faces.  But 
they  were  all  blind  and  dumb  when  she  sent  off 
to  the  hut-with-the-pig-in-the-door  more  in  a 
day  than  the  cook  and  bottlewasher  could  con 
trive  to  save  in  a  week — and  they  no  niggards. 

So  at  length  the  fond  lad  of  a  king  growing 
sadly  wise,  as  became  his  high  estate,  was 
minded  to  send  his  queen  away  to  the  court  of 
France  to  be  inoculated  with  manners.  For  the 
proud  and  mighty  lords-in-waiting,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  ladies,  made  unpleasantly  de 
risive  faces  when  their  queen  of  low  and  there 
fore  resented  degree,  ate  in  their  presence  with 
her  small  fingers — daintily  washed  to  be  sure — 
and  threw  the  bones  and  whatever  else  she  chose 
to  the  dogs  under  the  table;  and  the  haughty 
mistress  of  the  robes  swore  a  sacred  oath  that 
she  would  carry  on  her  royal  business  in  the 
rival  kingdom  across  seas  rather  than  demean 
herself  to  attend  to  the  cleansing  of  cloth-of- 
gold  robes  degraded  to  napkin  rank. 

So  the  dear  king,  more  charming  than  ever, 
but  mightily  subdued  in  his  proud  spirit,  sighed 
for  mad  love  of  his  wild  queen  and  fitted  out  a 
lordly  ship  to  take  her  away  for  a  year  and  a 


132  MADDALENA'S  DAY 

day  in  all  state  and  magnificence  and  with  a 
great  noble  retinue.  But  lo !  when  the  time 
came  and  the  ship  fluttering  with  banners  lay 
in  the  offing  and  all  the  king's  bowmen  and  hal 
berdiers  stood  in  line  from  palace  to  harbor,  my 
lady  put  on  her  crown  which  the  fool  had  just 
found  in  a  thicket,  and  the  gold  shoes  she  had 
been  wading  in,  and  climbed  up  to  the  very 
throne  of  Cophetua  the  Sad,  with  her  glorious 
veil  of  hair  about  her  knees,  the  splendor  of  her 
eyes  and  the  joy  of  her  pomegranate  beauty 
so  overcoming  those  who  stood  in  the  presence, 
and  most  of  all  the  yearning  king  himself, 
that  he  raised  his  right  hand  and  swore  with  a 
terrible  oath  that  nothing  in  heaven  above  nor 
earth  beneath — nor  unspeakable  regions  below 
them  both — should  ever  part  her  for  a  day  from 
him  whose  very  soul  adored  her  as  she  was. 

And  so,  it  is  said,  they  lived  long  in  bliss, 
though  much  I  suspect  as  the  creatures  who 
wear  feathers  and  fur  only — and  perhaps  for 
that  very  reason;  and  the  nobles  grew  thin  and 
pale,  and  the  people  at  large  ruddy  and  fat  as 
pampered  pigs. 

The  moral? — Ah,  who  by  searching  can  find 
out  a  moral?  Insubordination,  unconvention- 


COPHETUA    AND    THE    BEGGAR-MAID          133 

ality,  conduct  unbecoming  a  queen, — these 
reasons  and  many  others  there  were,  brought 
forward  and  urged  in  favor  of  the  decree  of 
banishment  for  a  year  and  a  day.  And  it  may 
well  be  that  in  the  hearts  of  the  high  and 
mighty  lords  there  was  a  fond  hope  that,  once 
out  of  sight,  the  king  might  put  out  of  mind 
the  compelling  image  of  the  beggar-maid  and 
choose  in  her  stead  a  queen  of  high  degree. 

Yet  the  fact  stands  fast  that  even  to  this 
day  all  that  can  be  said  in  extenuation  of  the 
queen's  faults  and  the  king's  sudden  change  of 
mind  is  that  they  loved  each  other  with  might 
and  main  just  as  two  common  people  may. 

So  it  has  come  to  pass  that  these  two,  royal 
Cophetua  and  the  nameless  beggar-maid,  have 
loitered  hand  in  hand  farther  down  the  ages, 
giving  and  taking  joy  as  they  went,  than  any 
other  crowned  pair  in  Christendom.  And  this, 
at  last,  is  the  true  moralless  story  of  two  young 
things  playing  at  king  and  queen  in  the  olden, 
golden  days — very  young  things,  who,  Lord 
love  us !  may  have  had  their  own  special 
troubles  like  the  best  of  us,  without  mentioning 
them.  But  whether  the  queen  ever  lost  the 
bloom  of  her  youth,  the  charm  of  her  glorious 


134- 

beauty,  or  a  particle  of  her  liege's  love — 
whether  she  grew  old  and  dull  and  learned  to 
do  things  like  other  folk,  or  stayed  a  child  for 
ever,  we  may  not  know. 


Y.C !  02573 


6465G8 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


